


A Tangled Web

by monkeycat



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friendship/Love, Romance, Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2020-05-20 01:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 126,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19367416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkeycat/pseuds/monkeycat
Summary: Marian Hawke has tried to ignore her magical abilities her whole life, choosing instead to hone her skills with the dagger. But living in Kirkwall forces her to re-evaluate her choices. And falling in love with an angry elf that hates mages with a vengeance doesn't make things any easier.





	1. The First Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the violence and chaos that is a part of her everyday life in Kirkwall, Hawke discovers her growing feelings for a certain broody elf.

“Five Serpents! Hah!” Varric tossed his cards on the table with a smirk.

Isabela pouted, learning forward to rest her formidable bosom on the table as she glared at him. “You’re cheating, dwarf, I just know it.”

Varric just shrugged, starting to sweep up the pile of coins. “The day you catch me cheating, Rivaini, I’ll hang Bianca up and join Choir-boy in the Chantry.”

“That’s a bold statement to make, Varric. I didn’t know you had scruples about anything, much less cheating at cards.” Aveline raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve got it all wrong, Captain.” Varric laughed. “Cheating at Wicked Grace is nothing to be ashamed of. Getting caught, on the other hand…”

“You arrogant little… There are witnesses here, Varric,” Isabela bared her teeth in an evil grin. “I can’t wait to see how you look stuffed into a black robe.”

“As long as the Chantry doesn’t mind a few alterations,” Varric waggled his eyebrows and gestured at his chest. “Hiding this Maker-given gift would be a crime.”

“Excuse me, I know I’m probably wrong,” Merrill piped up timidly, eyes glued to her hand, “but don’t Angels beat Serpents?”

Isabela snatched Merrill’s cards up, then started cackling with glee. “So they do, kitten! See that, Varric?” She slammed the cards down, revealing five Angels. “Not so clever after all, are we?”

Varric paused, squinting at the cards, then with a grunt shoved the pile of coins in Merrill’s direction while Isabela crowed. Even Aveline was grinning. “Nice job, Daisy. No more card lessons for you, then.”

“Oh!” The elf turned her big green eyes on Varric, looking wounded. “Did I do something bad?”

“No, kitten, you’re doing just fine,” Isabela purred as Varric hastily reassured Merrill that he was only joking. “I think you owe me a pint, though. You might as well buy the next round, it’s only manners if you’ve won the pot. Don’t you agree, Hawke?” Isabela turned her head. “Hawke?”

Everyone swiveled to focus on the dark-haired woman sitting at the end of the table. Cards forgotten, she had her chin propped up in one hand, staring blankly into the distance, completely oblivious to the fact that she had just lost a handful of coppers to their resident blood mage.

“Hawke!” Aveline barked.

Hawke jumped, knocking her empty mug to the floor where it shattered with a sharp crack. She stared down at the mug, then up at Aveline with a mixture of annoyance and confusion. “Andraste’s ass, Aveline, what was that for?” She reached down reflexively to clean up the shards, then cursed as she sliced open her finger on a sharp edge. Straightening up, she glared at her friend, holding her finger up for inspection. “Now look what you made me do.”

“Do you have a rich aunt we don’t know about that died recently?” asked Varric with a raised eyebrow. “Otherwise I don’t know how you can be so unconcerned about someone else taking your hard-earned cash out from under your nose.”

Hawke blinked, finally noticing the pile of coins in front of Merrill. “What? Maker’s breath, how did that happen?”

“You’re dripping blood on your shirt, Hawke,” Aveline observed.

Hawke looked down. “Maker's breath.” She held her hand out to one side with an exasperated noise. Isabela reached out and grabbed Hawke’s wrist, batting her eyelashes. “Want me to kiss it all better?”

“Shut up, whore, you’ll probably end up giving her a disease,” Aveline snarked.

Isabela dropped Hawke’s wrist to blow Aveline a kiss. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, big girl, it makes your mannish face all splotchy.”

Hawke pushed her chair back and got to her feet, ignoring them both. “I need some air. Just start the next game without me.”

The group fell silent as Hawke stalked outside, pushing random drunk patrons out of her way. “Is she all right?” Merrill ventured.

Aveline shrugged. “I think she might have quarreled with Leandra earlier. I thought I heard them shouting at each other when I stopped by Gamlen’s place before coming here.”

Varric snorted. “Living in that hovel would drive anyone insane. The sooner we start on this expedition the better.”

“Well, there’s no use in all of us moping.” Isabela was already waving Norah over for another round. “I saw we just get her completely sozzled when she comes back. Always works for me.”

***

Hawke walked a little ways from the tavern entrance, grimacing as one of the patrons noisily vomited on the pavement behind her. She turned into the nearest alley where she could enjoy a brief moment of privacy, take a breath away from the sour stench of ale and sweat. Leaning back against the wall, she closed her eyes.

It had all started because Bethany had asked if she could come along tonight. Hawke had said sure, why not. Gamlen’s house was always cramped with four of them there. If she and Bethany were out of the way, their mother could have some time to herself, which Hawke had thought she’d welcome. Gamlen had already gone out for the night – most likely to the Blooming Rose. Where he got the coin to spend there was an eternal mystery.

But when Hawke had told her mother she was taking Bethany with her to The Hanged Man, she was met with an absolute earful about how she was corrupting her younger sister and exposing her to unnecessary dangers. _It’s not enough that you take her along on your so-called adventures and encourage her to use her magic! Do you want the Templars to take her away to the Gallows?_

_The Templars don’t frequent Lowtown, Mother, they’re too afraid of getting their boots dirty. She’ll be safe—_

_Yes, because getting robbed by a cutthroat is so much better! You’re the oldest, Marian, I expect better from you._

_No one in Lowtown would dare hurt her if she’s with me._

_Oh, is that supposed to reassure me? The fact that the lowlifes in this Maker-forsaken place fear my daughter?_

_I am trying to keep us safe, Mother._

_The same way you kept Carver safe?_

The minute the words left her mouth, Hawke could see her mother’s stricken eyes, horrified at her own words. But it was too late. She had spun on her heel and left, with a muttered aside to Bethany to stay home that night. She could hear Bethany speaking angrily to Leandra as the door closed behind her, but that was cold comfort.

_Carver._

Would things have been different if he’d lived? She’d replayed his death over and over in her head, so many times she’d lost count. Was it her hesitation that had cost him his life? Would it have made a different if she’d…? Only the Maker knew, but her mother certainly seemed to think that somehow, Marian had failed her brother. It was a burden she would never be free of.

Lost in her misery, her head swimming with cheap ale, she had only a split second’s warning that something was off before she found herself roughly pinned against the wall. Two men were on either side of her, holding her arms down with brute strength. She tried to wrench herself free and almost tore a muscle in the process. _Fuck._

A third man was bearing down on top of her, a grin contorting his ugly face. She braced herself against the wall and swiftly brought her knee up as hard as she could. He grunted in pain, but she hadn’t gotten a clear shot, and rather than debilitating him she’d only managed to anger him. He wrapped his hand around her throat, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. _Well, Mother will be_ so _delighted that she gets to say I told you so,_ Hawke thought grimly as her vision started to cloud over. She could feel the man yanking at her waistband, and through her fading consciousness she thought she was going to be sick.

Her fingers tingled. She could sense the energy just beyond her grasp… always there, always calling. She knew she could still save herself…  But even now, as her life hung in the balance… would it be worth the risk?

Suddenly the pressure on her windpipe disappeared, and the hands holding her arms relaxed for a heartbeat. Hawke sucked in a breath of precious air, twisting herself free and reaching for her daggers all in one motion. The men on either side of her were reeling back in shock at… something, she didn’t have time to wonder what. She slashed one cleanly across the throat before he had time to react, then whirled around to face the other. He was yelling obscenities as he lunged for her, but she neatly side stepped his clumsy attack and gave him a vicious kick squarely in his backside, causing him to fall face first into the pavement with a sickening crack. He clapped his hands to his broken nose, screaming as he tried to scramble to his feet.

“Leaving so soon?” Hawke offered hoarsely, but the man was already stumbling away from her, lurching from side to side as he tried to put as much distance between them as possible. Hawke shrugged and turned away, still coughing, only to come face to face with a tall, slim figure, his hair shockingly white in the shadows.

“Oh, hello, Fenris.” She greeted him, taking a step back and trying to smile as she sheathed her daggers. Giddy relief coursed through her veins. She was alive, and… she hadn’t needed to… well, anyway, she was alive. “You’re a bit late. We’ve already played two rounds of Wicked Grace. Would you believe Merrill has emptied all our pockets tonight? Varric is apparently an excellent teacher, although I’m sure he’s currently regretting having such a star pupil.”

Fenris looked down at her silently. Only then did Hawke notice the body at his feet and the blood dripping from his right gauntlet. “Ah. So that’s why those gentlemen were so startled.” She couldn’t stop a high-pitched giggle from escaping her. “Perfect timing, Fenris.”

“Hawke. Do you have a death wish?” he said tightly. Hawke stared at him, his face all sharp angles in the shadows. The lyrium lines along his body glowed faintly, outlining the tension in his lean, muscled arms. _He should be angry more often._ The absurd thought almost made her burst out into more giggles. She had to purse her lips to contain herself. He seemed to sense her mood, and the disapproval in his brilliant green eyes visibly deepened. “Mooning around in a backalley in Lowtown is an excellent way to get yourself killed. Or worse.”

Hawke felt herself flush, and she half turned away as she started tucking her shirt back into her waistband. “I’m not a swooning maiden, Fenris. I can take care of myself.” It had definitely been stupid of her to drop her guard while she was alone… at night… in a Lowtown backalley… all right, it had been _extremely_ stupid, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. What business was it of his where she decided to moon around?

He reached out towards her with his clean hand, and she froze as his fingertips just barely grazed her jaw, prompting her to lift her chin. Her skin prickled at his touch, little shivers of electricity shooting down into her belly. His fingertips were rough and calloused, and she suddenly found herself imagining them trailing down her neck, tracing the outlines of her collarbone, moving down to the curves of her breasts…

“You’re going to have a fantastic bruise,” he observed, breaking her train of thought.

Hawke hoped the shadows hid her blushes. Her imaginings had been so vivid she felt like they had to have been written all over her face. Fenris dropped his hand, moved away. “You may be skilled with those daggers, Hawke, but it only takes one mistake to end up dead. Don’t make stupid mistakes.”

“I’ll try to confine my mistakes to the smart kind, then,” she said flippantly, trying not to wince as she rolled her shoulders to assess the damage. She could feel more bruises blooming on her upper arms, but otherwise everything seemed fine.

Fenris looked at her silently for a moment, his disapproval replaced by something she couldn’t quite read. “Is everything…all right? It seems unlike you to let your guard down so foolishly.”

Hawke looked away for a moment. The thought that it could have been Bethany instead of her was chilling. _Mother was right, though I’d never admit it to her face. Some wonderful older sister I am._ “Yes, well, I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between ourselves. I have a reputation to think of.” She stared at the dead man at Fenris’s feet, resisting the petty urge to kick the corpse viciously in the balls.

Fenris shrugged. A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Buy me a measure of The Hanged Man’s finest whiskey and I may be persuaded to keep my mouth shut.”

Hawke laughed as they made their way back to the tavern. “Drinking The Hanged Man’s whiskey is probably the best way to make sure you never talk again, but it’s your funeral.”

***

Fenris blinked, disoriented. It took him a moment to get his bearings. He was slumped in a dusty armchair, next to a cold fireplace. Beams of sunlight flickered through cracks in the curtains. He judged that it was just past sunrise.

He shifted, stretched, and winced at a sore muscle in his back. Sleeping in an armchair was not the best way to spend the night, and it probably hadn’t helped that he’d stumbled in close to dawn, moderately inebriated. Hawke had been right about the whiskey. He felt the beginnings of a vague headache.

He recalled playing a couple rounds of Wicked Grace and losing what little money he’d deigned to bet. Varric had been canny enough to win back most of his coin from Merrill. Aveline had left at a prudent hour, saying she had morning duty the next day. Isabela had tried to climb into his lap at one point, but that was nothing new. And Hawke…

He suddenly recalled with crystal clarity what he had stumbled upon last night. On his way to join the others, he’d caught sight of Hawke standing by herself in a dark alley. He’d just been about to call out to her when he’d realized she was…

She’d been crying.

Wetness stained her cheeks as she stared into the night sky. It was as if she were unaware of her own tears. Her warm amber eyes, almost golden when they caught the faint light, were filled with immeasurable pain, her lips pressed together tightly. He’d seen her face down demons, Templars, cutthroats, with nothing more than a dagger in each hand and a grin curling her lips. He’d seen her sass the Knight-Captain of the Templars, shrug nonchalantly in the face of blood magic. Never had he seen her so…unguarded. She’d always struck him as formidable despite her small stature, brimming with confidence, but in that moment she’d looked vulnerable. Lost.

He’d stepped back into the shadows so she couldn’t see him, though at that moment she probably wouldn’t have noticed anything short of the Arishok prancing past in a tutu. He’d felt as if he’d caught her in an intensely private moment, and he instinctively knew she wouldn’t have welcomed being discovered in such a moment of weakness. From the safety of darkness he had boldly stared at her in a way he’d never have dared in broad daylight. Her profile was almost lost in the shadows, but he could see the outline of her body in a way that stirred something in him. It felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. The leather armor she wore fit her snugly, but was hardly what one would call provocative. It was the same armor she wore every day, designed more for utility than aesthetics. Still, somehow in this moment, in the darkness, the way it hugged her curves suggested… he abruptly found himself imagining what she looked like underneath. Hawke’s sunkissed skin would be paler beneath her garments, but still impossibly smooth… taut with muscle but somehow soft and yielding in all the right places…

His fantasy had lasted only a heartbeat, but he’d jerked himself back to reality with a flare of mild embarrassment That brief, illicit moment had been enough for him to miss the three miscreants that had snuck out from the darkness and surrounded Hawke in her moment of weakness. _His_ weakness. He had been standing less than twenty paces away and they’d nearly violated her right in front of him. A flash of rage had roared through him and he’d reacted before he could think, rushing forward to plunge his lyrium-laced hand into the bastard’s ribcage, crushing his heart like rotten fruit. He’d barely pulled his hand out before Hawke had sprung to life, smoothly slashing one man across the throat and then severely wounding the other before he scurried off.

She’d greeted Fenris with a smile and a jest, unfazed by the dead men at their feet and the blood spatter that covered them both. That was the Hawke he knew and admired. But he could still see the traces of tears on her cheeks. And the ugly purple splotches marring her olive skin had made him briefly regret killing the bastard so quickly.

Recalling her face from last night – the dampness on her fine cheekbones, her bright gold-brown eyes, wetness still clinging to her lashes, her lips curved in a smile that belied the pain he’d seen in her face just moments earlier – he shifted uneasily in his chair. She was a beautiful, remarkable woman, and he was just a fugitive in her debt. It was useless to think of her in that way, although he was growing uncomfortably aware that his cock did not quite share his convictions.

“Fenris! Are you awake? Hello?”

He sprang to his feet at Hawke’s voice, caught unawares _again_. This woman would be the death of him. He closed his eyes, willing his traitorous body to relax as he strode towards the entrance of the mansion.

Hawke was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking far too alert and chipper for someone who had been drinking next to him just a handful of hours ago. Bethany was standing next to her – a softer, sunnier version of her older sister. Fenris’s distrust of mages ran bone deep, but he found it hard to be suspicious of Bethany – “Sunshine,” as Varric aptly called her. Still, it never hurt to be careful. “Hawke. Bethany.”

“Good, you’re up. Isabela and Merrill are in no fit state to be seen, and I can’t find Varric anywhere,” Hawke complained. “Some rich old man in Hightown is offering a reward for his missing wife, and I figured it would be easy coin. Better than chasing after blood mages, anyway. Would you like to join us? We’ll split the reward, of course.”

“Surely you don’t need help chasing down a wayward housewife,” Fenris frowned. “Wouldn’t you rather keep all the coin yourself and pay it towards the expedition?”

Fenris saw Hawke’s eyes flicker ever so slightly in the direction of her sister, but when she spoke her voice was light. “I’m doing you a favor, Fenris. I know you owe Varric a silver after last night’s game. Believe me, you don’t want to be in debt to a dwarf any longer than you need to be.”

Hawke was worried about her sister. Fenris felt instinctively that this had something to do with why she’d been so upset and distracted last night. She was wearing a high-collared shirt today that hid most of her bruises, but he still caught a glimpse of purple under her jawline. He wondered why she hadn’t just left Bethany at home, but he didn’t want to pry into their family affairs. And Hawke was right that it seemed like easy enough coin. If his presence would set her mind at ease, it was no hardship for him to tag along. He tried to ignore the sneaking satisfaction he felt at Hawke asking him a favor. _Don’t be a fool._

“I can’t imagine Varric sending the Carta after me for a silver,” he said dryly, pretending to stall.

“That’s not Varric’s style.” Hawke shook her head with mock solemnity. “He’s more likely to describe you with a warty nose in his next serial.”

“A fate worse than death.” Fenris noted as he started descending the staircase.

“I knew you’d see sense.” Hawke grinned, hooking her arm through Bethany’s as they left the mansion together.

***

The man in question was Ghyslain de Carrac, a grumpy Orlesian who, as it turned out, was not a very nice person. He seemed less concerned about his wife’s welfare and more upset over the possibility of his wife’s family ruining his life with rumors about her disappearance.

“If I were married to such a creature I’d run away too!” Bethany snapped as they walked away, barely out of earshot of the man. “Why are we helping him again?”

“It can’t hurt to locate Ninette and make sure she’s all right, at least,” Hawke said easily as they strode through the busy Hightown market. “If she doesn’t want to return to her ogre of a husband, that’s her business. All we need is proof she’s alive. But you don’t need to come with us, Bethy.”

“You’re my sister, not my mother,” Bethany rolled her eyes. “And it’s still the middle of the day. I can’t imagine a lot goes on in a brothel in the middle of the day.”

Hawke shot a look at Fenris, who looked as broody as ever but met her glance with a glint of amusement in his eye. She smothered a grin and offered a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker that Isabela wasn’t here to respond to Bethany’s remark. “I’m sure you’re right. Well, then, let’s get this over with.”

Bethany suddenly gasped and clutched Hawke’s arm. “Oh!”

Hawke stiffened, one hand automatically closing around a dagger, eyes darting around in search of danger. “What?”

“Look at those hairpins!” Bethany exclaimed, pulling her sister over to one of the stalls. “Aren’t they exquisite?”

Hawke let out her breath in a huff, glancing over her shoulder at Fenris, who had frozen in the act of pulling out his sword. He stared after them with such an indescribable look his face that she was hard-pressed not to burst into laughter. Although she could have shaken Bethany til her teeth rattled for startling them over… over a bunch of bloody hairpins. The merchant was prattling on about the latest fashions in Orlais, and Bethany was holding one up to the light, admiring how the milky opals glowed with hidden fire. Hawke had to admit, it did look lovely.

“Would you like one?” she asked her sister.

Bethany shook her head, denying any desire for a trinket, but Hawke knew her sister was lying for her benefit. She haggled with the merchant, browbeating him into a price that was only slightly outrageous rather than completely taking the piss, then gently pinned the cluster of opals and silver into her sister’s black tresses.

“But we’re supposed to be saving for Bertrand’s expedition!” Bethany protested.

“Shut up, Bethy,” Hawke said affectionately. “A few silvers won’t make or break us at this point. I’ll just have to cheat extra hard at cards next week.”

“What about you, Mari?” Bethany picked up a pin of red enamel, delicately shaped into the outline of a bird mid-flight. She held it against her sister’s hair, as dark as her own. “It suits you so well.”

Fenris, still mildly indignant that he had gone for his sword over a screech about a _hairpin_ , found himself studying Hawke as she laughingly made some quip about how the pin would complement the blood splatter that usually adorned her clothes. He’d never seen Hawke with any kind of adornment, which was a sensible choice – any glint of wealth would have attracted unwanted attention in their usual haunts. But seeing her with that glint of color in her hair suddenly reminded him of this morning, when he had imagined how she’d look stripped of her armor. Without warning an image of her naked, with her black hair falling around her face, that scarlet pin her only adornment, flashed across his brain. He gave his head a hard shake, grunting in disgust.

“Sorry about that, Fenris,” Hawke apologized, misinterpreting his actions as disapproval directed towards them. She’d tugged Bethany away from the stall, and her black hair remained unadorned in its usual plain ponytail, held together with a bit of red cloth.

“No need to apologize,” he said gruffly, avoiding her eyes.

Hawke sighed. Yesterday he’d caught her mooning around and needing to be rescued, now today he’d seen her sighing over Orlesian hairpins with her sister. His opinion of her was probably dropping at an alarming rate. She’d need to punch someone violently in front of him before the day was over, lest he refuse to be associated with such a silly bint. Or stab. Stabbing would probably be more persuasive. Stabbing someone full of holes would definitely send the message: _I am not a silly bint._ Though why did she care so much what Fenris thought of her?

_He would think far worse of you, if only he knew the truth._

“The Blooming Rose it is, then,” she said brightly, spinning on her heel and striding off, leaving her sister and Fenris to follow her lead.

***

Hawke had walked past The Blooming Rose numerous times as she ran her various mercenary errands, but she’d never actually walked in. She was familiar with the whores in Lowtown, luring in dark alleys with crooked smiles that never quite reached their eyes. This was different. The air smelled faintly of lavender, and the furnishings were plush and inviting. As Bethany had predicted, things were quiet in the middle of the day. The first floor, designed to be a tavern area, was almost empty, with just a few patrons scattered at various tables. At the door was a burly, bored-looking guard who studied them with poorly-feigned disinterest.

Bethany stared around with wide eyes. “Somehow I thought there would be more… naked people walking around.”

“Displaying all your wares at once is never wise,” Fenris remarked, earning himself a smothered chuckle from Hawke.

A woman with a shock of shoulder-length white hair and a tastefully made-up face sauntered over to them, looking them up and down with pursed lips. “Welcome to The Blooming Rose. I am Madam Lusine. What do you wish?”

“We’re looking for Jethann.”

“All three of you?” She raised an eyebrow. “That’ll be two sovereigns each. It’s more expensive if you want to go all at once. That falls under our premium service.”

Fenris coughed into a gauntleted hand to hide his amusement, while Bethany’s eyes became big and round, mouthing _two sovereigns_ in disbelief. Hawke smiled charmingly at the proprietress, unfazed. “We’re not looking to… be serviced, mistress. We’re looking for a missing person, and Jethann was the last to see her. We just wanted to have a quick chat.”

Madam Lusine’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t look like you’re with the city guard.”

“We’re not,” Hawke reassured her. “Her family hired us. You know how useless the city guard is,” Hawke continued, offering up a silent apology to Aveline. “We don’t want any trouble, we just want some information so we can find the lady in question and collect our fee.”

After a few more moments of scrutiny, the madam gestured behind her. “You can find him upstairs.”

As they made their way further into the brothel, Hawke could hear the faint sounds of patrons being… serviced behind closed doors. At one point she thought she heard someone barking, interspersed with the crack of a whip. A few scantily-clad figures passed them in the hallway. One of them, the tallest woman Hawke had ever seen, wearing lingerie that looked like it was made of chain mail of all things, blew Hawke a kiss. Bethany seemed torn between shock and fascination. Fenris looked as impassive as ever. Hawke heard some of the “ladies” whispering as they passed and she was certain she heard the words “elf” and “amazing ass.” She was surprised at the flare of jealousy that briefly spurted up in her belly. _And why would I care who looks at his ass? There’s no denying it’s amazing._ She kept her eyes determinedly in front of her, afraid she’d burst into giggles if she met Fenris’s eyes.

Jethann turned out to be an elf, though as different from Fenris as two elves could possibly be. He was petite and slender with chestnut locks framing bright blue eyes and a saucy smile that grew wider as he looked Hawke up and down. “I’m off duty at the moment, but for you I can make an exception,” he purred.

Hawke felt flattered, but could practically feel the disapproval radiating from Fenris behind her. She straightened and tried to look at the elf sternly as she asked him about Ninette. _Remember, no silly bints here._ Jethann flounced and pouted his way through his answers in a way that reminded Hawke strongly of a certain dusky-skinned, big-bosomed pirate wench.

She had hoped that Jethann could put an end to a search by simply revealing that Ninette had left her husband for a secret lover somewhere, but no such luck. His information simply complicated their search further: apparently a Templar had been asking after the woman. A Templar. _Flaming tits of Andraste, that is really all we need._ And to make matters more interesting, there was yet another missing woman that the Templar had mentioned. Two missing women. Could be coincidence, or… what was the alternative? Hawke wasn’t sure she wanted to know. _Knowing Kirkwall, nothing good._

“Are you sure you don’t want to take advantage of my… many, _many_ services?” the elf said suggestively as they made to leave.

‘Maybe some other time. Thank you for all your help,” Hawke said politely.

“No problem, honey.” Jethann pursed his lips in a kiss by way of a good-bye. “Remember I’m always here and willing.”

Bethany had broken into a fit of giggles and could barely hold it together until they were safely outside, where she leaned against the wall and tried to choke back her merriment. Hawke ignored her sister and turned to confer with Fenris, who still seemed to have disapproval written all over his face. Though with him it was hard to tell. The line between _broody_ and _disapproving_ seemed to be a fine one.

“Do you think she might have been a mage? Why else would a Templar take interest in her?”

Fenris frowned. “It seems the most likely explanation, particularly since the Templar was asking after another woman as well.”

“But wouldn’t Jethann have noticed if Ninette was a mage? They spent a lot of time together.” Hawke gave her sister a sidelong glance. Bethany had finally stopped giggling and was paying attention to their conversation. She met Hawke’s look with a pointed one of her own but mercifully stayed silent.

Fenris snorted. “Do you think that mincing fool would recognize a mage if one walked up to him and set him on fire?”

Hawke had to laugh at the image. “That’s a bit harsh. I know he seemed a bit silly, but he didn’t strike me as stupid.”

Fenris looked unconvinced but changed the subject. “So, then. We must find this Templar.”

“Yes. Jethann mentioned he’s been conducting his investigation in Darktown.” Hawke rolled her eyes. “A Templar in Darktown is going to stick out like … like, well, a Templar in Darktown. It’ll be a miracle if don’t find his body in a ditch somewhere."

“Do you still mean to pursue this, Hawke?” Fenris queried. “Is it really worth the couple of sovereigns?”

Hawke shrugged. “It’s starting to become a bigger pain in the arse than I’d expected, but we’re knee deep in it now. Anyway, aren’t you the least bit curious? Rich housewives having affairs are common enough, but it seems strange for a noblewoman to disappear so completely. At the very least you’d think she’d have sent a letter to her family.”

“So, Darktown it is then.” Bethany said cheerfully. “The only place that makes one appreciate the charms of Lowtown.”

Hawke turned to regard her sister, looking uncharacteristically stern. “If you think I’m taking you along to meet a Templar, darling sister of mine, you are quite mistaken.”

Fenris silently watched as Hawke took her sister by the arm and led her away as they started arguing.  He leaned against the nearest wall and mulled over the situation. At this point, the chase after the missing housewife was quickly starting to become more trouble than it was worth, especially if the woman turned out to be a mage on the run. But Hawke, despite her flippant exterior, had an inconvenient soft spot for anyone she felt had been unfairly mistreated. The idea that a young woman might have met with misfortune attempting to escape a loveless marriage was not something she’d be able to ignore. If the woman was an apostate that made it even more unfortunate… and even less likely that Hawke would walk away from this. Someone needed to tell Hawke that not every wayward apostate was the equivalent of Bethany.

Bethany had her arms crossed across her chest, and her normally cheerful face was dark with resentment as she turned and started walking away. Hawke turned to Fenris with a sigh. “I need to go talk some sense into my sister. Do you mind meeting me at The Hanged Man later? Then we can track down this fool of a Templar and ask him about Ninette. With any luck it’ll be the end of this goose chase.”

Fenris nodded. Hawke flashed him a grateful grin before striding off to catch up with Bethany. A quick look back over her shoulder revealed that he was still watching her with those inscrutable green eyes. With his silver-white hair and exotic lyrium tattoos, he should have looked ridiculous amidst the mundane bustle of the Hightown market. But _ridiculous_ was the last adjective that came to mind. He looked… dangerous. _But in a sexy way_.  _A dangerous man with an amazing ass._

“What in Andraste’s name are you grinning about?” Bethany demanded as Hawke caught up with her.

Hawke tried to pull her face into more serious lines. “Nothing.” She linked arms with her sister, and while Bethany didn’t pull away, she seemed to just barely tolerate it. “Bethy, please be reasonable.”

“You are such a hypocrite, Marian.” Bethany snapped. “Any reason you give for wanting me to avoid the Templars applies to you too, and you damn well know it.”

They walked in silence for a little while as the scenery around them went from clean pavement and imposing mansions to dingy, well-worn shopfronts and dusty streets. “The smell of piss in the alleyways is when you know you’re almost home,” Hawke remarked as if she was continuing a conversation they’d been having.

“Marian.” Bethany stopped and turned to face her sister squarely.

“Bethany.” Hawke sighed. “You know we’re not the same.” She lowered her voice. “You use your magic like… like you use your hands. Without thought. Which means you are far better at it than me, of course, but it also means it is far more likely that you’ll slip up in front of others. A Templar in Darktown will be followed by trouble, and I _don’t_ want to be caught in a situation where you have to choose between defending yourself from a thug’s shiv or ending up being dragged by your hair to the Gallows.”

Bethany chewed her lip. “I’m not a child, Mari.”

“Then stop acting like one!” Hawke snapped, then took a breath. “You know I’m right, Bethy. Worst case scenario, you set someone on fire in front of a Templar, then I have to set the Templar on fire to keep his mouth shut, and then the whole world knows that the Hawke family is hiding two maleficarum.”

Bethany’s mouth twitched. “You’d probably just end up setting your own hair on fire. Your spellcasting is _terrible._ ”

“No doubt,” Hawke gave a wry smile, relieved that Bethany finally seemed to be seeing sense.

“Fine.” Bethany let out a breath. “I’ll stay away from the Templar. But the next job you have that takes you out of the city, you have to promise to take me. I think I’d rather join the Circle than be cooped up with Mother and Gamlen bickering for any longer than I have to be.”

“I promise,” Hawke agreed, linking arms with her sister again as they continued on their way. “Shall we get some lunch at The Hanged Man?”

“As long as we don’t order the stew,” Bethany made a gagging noise.

***

Fenris found the Hawke sisters finishing up lunch with Isabela and Varric. “Hello, Broody,” Varric greeted him. “Want some stew?”

Fenris wrinkled his nose. “No.”

“You sure? Corff swears that it’s pigeon today.”

“I’ll pass.”

Hawke stood up, wiping her mouth on a napkin. “A wise decision.” She dropped a kiss on Bethany’s head. “Isabela, if you could refrain from corrupting my sister any further while I’m away, that would be appreciated.”

“We’re just going to do some reading,” Isabela said innocently, batting her eyelashes and smiling sweetly at Bethany.

“I’m coming with you and Broody, Hawke,” Varric announced, getting up from the table. “You could use more back-up if you’re going to Darktown, and Bianca is itching for some action.”

Fenris felt a brief urge to object, which was not only ridiculous but stupid. Varric was right – Darktown could be treacherous, even during the day, and Varric was a good shot. Also he was less annoying than Isabela. and far less dangerous than that Dalish witch Hawke insisted on keeping around. So what was there to object to?

“The way you fondle that crossbow is disturbing,” he said instead as Varric took Bianca down from her place on the wall.

“Hey, I’m a perfect gentleman,” Varric seemed offended as he carefully slung the crossbow on his back.

Isabela waggled her eyebrows. “You know what they say about gentlemen.”

“Hold that thought,” Hawke was already walking towards the door. “My rule is, no smut before six o’clock.”

“Prude!” Isabela yelled after them as they left.

“Isabela’s worst insult,” Varric remarked.

“Somehow I’ll survive the heartbreak,” Hawke rolled her eyes as they started to make their way towards Darktown.

***

When they found the Templar he was, unsurprisingly, surrounded by Darktown’s finest: a group of thugs that had decided there was safety to be had in numbers. Judging by the way one of them was already spattered in blood and clutching his arm, the Templar had demonstrated he wasn’t exactly easy prey. But there were nine of them and one of him, and Darktown inhabitants were always hungry and desperate. The shining metal of the Templar’s armor seemed only to enrage them even further.

“We’re goin’ to strip yous clean and hang yer head on a pike!” one of them taunted. Won’t look so fancy then.”

“It’s STICK a head on a pike, ye daft cunt,” his friend corrected him.

The first man glowered. “Ye can take a pike and shove it up yer--”

“Gentlemen!” Hawke interrupted hastily. She immediately found herself holding the attention of Darktown’s finest, and she grinned. “Is that any way to greet a guest? No wonder Auntie Elthina never stops by for tea.”

“We found ‘im first!” one growled. “Ye can ‘ave wot’s left.”

Varric rubbed his chin, pretending to think. “What do you think, Hawke? Surely you’re not going to pass on a tempting offer like that.”

Hawke sighed theatrically. “Unfortunately, I doubt that a head on a pike would be of much use to us.”

Meanwhile, the grammatically-inclined thug was staring at them, his thick brow furrowed. “I know that name. Hawke. Used to run errands for Athenril.”

“That must be another Hawke,” Hawke pretended to look confused. “There are so many of us about.”

“Hawke is a mean one, they says.” The thug looked slightly nervous.

“Don’t be daft!” another one snapped. “This skinny bitch. We’ll slit her throat and get on with it.”

“She’ll be more fun than ol’ shiny knickers,” another agreed, licking his lips.

“You have _no_ idea.” Hawke locked eyes with Varric, who gave a quick nod before hurling a flask to the ground. It shattered, spilling out thick black smoke. The men shouted and cursed, some of them hitting each other with their weapons as they flailed about wildly. Fenris waited for the worst of the smoke to clear before rushing into the fray.

They had only been fighting together for a little over a month, but they’d developed a rhythm that they fell into easily. Fenris wielded his greatsword with an almost careless grace that belied the force behind each powerful swing. In battle, he radiated a kind of tightly-controlled rage that taunted his enemies. _Try my blade, I dare you._ As he deliberately drew the focus of battle to himself, Hawke slipped between their adversaries, economizing her movements so she was as quick and quiet as possible. Her presence often went unnoticed until she’d already been and gone, leaving a trail of death in her wake. Around them, Bianca’s bolts sang with deadly accuracy as she found her mark with almost every shot. 

The battle was over almost as soon as it had begun. Idiots though they were, the men quickly realized they were outclassed despite their superior numbers. Those that hadn’t fallen scrambled and fled best they could, with various groans and muttered curses.

“I… thank you, serah,” the Templar sheathed the sword he had barely used and wiped his brow. “I am Emric, a Templar of the Kirkwall Circle.” He took in the carnage and shook his grey head. “Maker, I’m getting too old for this.”

Hawke had been hoping for an end to this flighty-rich-woman scavenger hunt, but she was to be disappointed. Emric confirmed that Ninette had not been a mage, but just one disappearance out of a few he had happened to be investigating. He was working on a theory that there was a killer in Kirkwall, deliberately targeting women. Although why anyone would do such a thing, the Templar admitted he had no clue.

“A killer only focusing on older women?” Fenris said skeptically after the Templar had left, announcing he was going back to the safety of the Gallows. “That sounds like a plotline from one of your less credible stories, dwarf.”

“You wound me, Broody. All my stories are credible with the right amount of alcohol.” Varric stroked his beardless chin. “Although… this plotline would be pretty messed up even by my standards. I mean, assume it is one person. That means this nug-licker would have to be crazy enough to kill random women for no good reason, but smart enough to cover his tracks so no one suspects anything.” He shook his head. “It seems more likely that a Templar got bored with his daily bullying mages routine and started making up stories to entertain himself.”

Hawke was flipping through the notes Emric had left with them. It was mostly illegible scrawlings, half-finished thoughts on shadowy conspiracies. She frowned at the last page. “It looks like he was heading to the old foundry buildings next. Not sure why, but that’s all I can make out of his notes.”

“Are you still determined to pursue this, Hawke?” Fenris queried. He didn’t know why he was asking; her normally mischievous face was set in stubborn lines he had become all too familiar with in the brief time they had known each other.

“We’ve come this far, we might as well see it through,” she shrugged. “Are you two still with me?”

“Well, I’ll have to cancel that tea party with the Viscount, but anything for you, Hawke.” Varric grinned. Fenris merely nodded and started walking in the direct of the Docks.

“Thanks.” Hawke nodded. “I owe both of you a round tonight.”

***

“So, how did it go?”

Several hours later, they were sitting in The Hanged Man with Bethany and Isabela, their usual pints of mediocre ale sitting in front of them. Hawke grimaced, picked up her mug and knocked it back in one go.

“Well.” Varric said, uncharacteristically hesitant with his words for once. “We… did find Ninette. Kind of.”

“She was dead,” Fenris said briefly. “We identified her by her wedding ring. The Orlesian paid us for our time.”

Varric shot the elf a wry look at his redacted version of the horror show they had discovered. Hawke was still silent, staring into her mug in a way that suggested she was hoping it would magically refill itself.

Bethany gasped. “But… that’s awful! What happened to her?”

“Probably some bad luck with some lowlifes. It’s a sad story but an all too common one, Sunshine.” Varric tried to brush it off.

Isabela narrowed her eyes. “If they were thugs, why didn’t they take her wedding ring?”

“Maybe they thought it wasn’t worth the effort.” Varric shot Isabela a look before changing the subject. “So, what did you two get up to?”

Isabela seemed oblivious. “The last unlucky toff to get murdered in Lowtown had two gold teeth yanked right out of his head. You’re telling me these bastards were stumped by a sticky finger?”

Hawke slammed her fist on the table, making everyone jump with the sole exception of Fenris. She peered at Isabela with golden eyes that glinted dangerously, but her voice was deceptively mild. “If I buy you a drink, will you please shut up?”

Isabela glared right back at Hawke, refusing to be intimidated. “There’s no need to be rude, Hawke. It was a reasonable question.”

“Since when have you cared about anyone that you weren’t trying to either seduce or rob blind?” Hawke snapped.

A flush of red stained Isabela’s dusky cheeks as if she’d been slapped. “What in the name of the Maker’s hairy nutsack has gotten into you, Hawke?”

Hawke seemed to be mulling over a dozen answers at once, but instead she let out a long breath and looked away. “Sorry,” she said shortly. “It’s been a long day. I’ll get the next round.”

“Maker’s breath, Rivaini,” Varric muttered as Hawke stalked off to the bar. “Does the word ‘subtle’ mean anything to you? Next time I want you to change the subject, I’ll have to take off my shirt and set my chest hair on fire.”

“If you’re trying to discourage me, you’re failing miserably,” Isabela snorted, though she couldn’t quite hide the dismay in her blue eyes at the gradual realization of her stupidity.

Bethany leaned over towards Fenris as Varric continued to berate Isabela. “Go talk to her.”

Fenris stared at Bethany as if she had suggested he also take off his shirt and set his non-existent chest hair on fire. “What?”

Bethany nodded towards the bar, where Hawke has ostensibly gone to order more drinks. Instead she was leaning against it with her head resting against a clenched fist. He couldn't see her expression. Fenris looked at Bethany. “I would think she’d prefer speaking to her sister if she’s… upset.”

“She never wants to tell me anything upsetting.” Bethany smiled sadly. “If I went up to her now, she’d just smile at me and change the subject with a stupid joke. She can be honest with you.”

Fenris couldn’t argue with that, after witnessing how Hawke had uncharacteristically almost bitten Isabela’s head off in an attempt to keep her sister from hearing the gory details of what they’d found. He slowly got up from his seat and made his way towards Hawke, feeling oddly awkward and unsure of himself.

She looked up as he approached, pulling her face into a tired smile. “Sorry about that display back there. I know Isabela didn’t mean anything.”

The place was crowded and chaotic, as it always was at this hour, and Fenris found himself pushed up against Hawke by a particularly rowdy patron. He tried to back up a bit, but there wasn’t much room. She looked up him, and he noticed the purple smudges under her eyes, the paleness under her tanned skin. She was chewing her bottom lip absentmindedly, and Fenris had the absurd urge to run his thumb across her chin to stop her from doing that.

“You’re upset by what we discovered at the Foundry,” was all he could think to say at that moment. The inanity of his observation made him inwardly cringe, but Hawke seemed almost relieved at his words, taking them as permission to spill her pent-up emotions.

“Maker’s breath, Fenris, you were there.” She looked away, staring blankly at the bar. “You’d think… after all this time, after so much death, I think, nothing can surprise me ever again. Apparently the Maker takes it as some kind of personal challenge.” She laughed a little. “What was Ninette guilty of? Trying to escape her oaf of a husband. Wanting to start a new life somewhere else. And she ends up chopped into little bits like a carcass at the butcher’s. We wouldn’t even have known who she was if she hadn’t been wearing her wedding ring.” Hawke clenched her fists in impotent anger. “And not a fucking clue as to the sick bastard that did that to her. Sometimes I wonder, what is the point of even caring?”

He met her eyes, full of frustration and despair, and Fenris had to marvel that someone like Hawke, who dealt with the dregs of humanity on an almost daily basis, still willingly took the pain of others and made it her own. He absently rubbed the back of his neck where he felt a whisper of a tingle, almost as if Hawke’s sadness was something tangible in the air.

“I haven’t forgotten that I am in your debt,” he said in a low voice, leaning forwards even closer to make sure she could hear him over the general din. “Were it not for you caring, I would most likely be dead, or… back in Tevinter.” He repressed a shudder at the thought. Wisps of black hair ticked his cheek, and he could smell _her_ \- sweat and blood from the day’s escapades, but also something else, something that was pure Hawke. Warm and familiar and comforting, but at the same time… enticing. He caught a glimpse of the bruises on her neck and found himself tentatively tracing her jawline with the tips of his fingers. “You would probably do better to save some care for yourself, Hawke.”

Hawke had gone absolutely still, to the point where he wasn’t even sure if she was still breathing. She was looking up at him, her amber eyes wide and staring. _Fool._ Quickly he pulled his hand back. She blinked and let out a slow breath. He wasn’t completely sure she wasn’t going to stab him in the kidney for being so presumptuous, but she just smiled at him, and her face seemed brighter than before. “Thank you, Fenris.”

Fenris cleared his throat. “For what?”

“For reminding me why it’s worth caring.” Her eyes twinkled with her usual humor, and unexpectedly she leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. It took all his self-control not to jump out of his skin. “I couldn’t let such a handsome elf escape my clutches, now could I?”

He grunted, relieved that she seemed back to her old mischievous self, thought the spot her lips had touched burned like a brand. “Isabela will probably throw a dagger at your back if you keep her waiting any longer for her drink.”

Hawke twitched and craned her neck to look behind her. “Her aim somehow manages to improve the more she drinks. Black magic, I tell you.”

As Hawke shouted at the barkeeper for another round of drinks, Fenris surreptitiously touched his cheek. If a hurloc had dropped on him from the rafters of The Hanged Man he couldn’t have been more surprised. Though probably _far_ less aroused.

***

“So Fenris managed to cheer you up?” Bethany teased as they were walking back to Gamlen’s house.

It was still a reasonable hour, and Hawke had restricted herself to just two pints of ale. She walked with one arm linked in Bethany’s and the other hand tense, ready to go for her daggers at the slightest sign of danger.

“Hm? Oh, right. Yes, he gave me such a rousing, sincere speech, it was just amazing.”

“No need to be snarky.” Bethany giggled and tugged on Hawke’s arm. “This is me you’re talking to. You were practically glowing when you got back to the table.”

Hawke shot her sister her best withering look. “All that ale. It brings out such a lovely color in my cheeks.”

“He’s definitely not _my_ type, but you can’t ignore his muscled, virile body, his strong hands, his aching, throbbing…”

“Bethany Hawke!” Hawke stopped in her tracks and stared at her sister, who was giggling madly.

“I’m just quoting some _literature_ Isabela shared with me this afternoon.”

Hawke rolled her eyes as they resumed walking. “No more pirate smut for you, little sister.”

“Don’t change the subject.” Bethany insisted.

Hawke was silent, savoring those brief moments she’d shared with Fenris at the bar. It was only the second time his fingers had touched her skin, but she’d been terrified she was going to accidentally fry him on the spot with an errant lightning bolt. The sparks in her belly had felt that much real. She had held herself absolutely still, fearful that any movement would have scared him off like the skittish wolf that he was, resisting the ridiculous impulse to nuzzle her cheek against his hardened palm. There had barely been a breath of space between their bodies, and the tension was so thick that she wasn’t sure if the electricity in the air was real or just in her head. For a heartbeat she had fantasized about leaning into his strong chest and pulling his head down for a kiss, running her fingers through his snow-white locks…

“By the look on your face, you’re writing something worse than pirate smut in your head right this minute.”

Hawke shook her head hard and hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Trying to seduce Fenris would be like trying to flirt with a stone. Only the stone would be easier to read.”

“He does show emotion sometimes. Well, one emotion anyway.”

“A very broody stone, then.” Hawke amended her statement. “And…” she swallowed. “Maker’s breath, Bethy, if he ever found out about… I’d be lucky if he didn’t lop my head off on the spot.”

“Your self-loathing when it comes to your…” Bethany lowered her voice. “…your _abilities_ is baffling, it really is. You should just be honest with him. He _knows_ what I am, and he hasn’t tried to cut my head off yet. Or Merrill’s for that matter.”

“It’s not the same.” Hawke shrugged, then in a shameless attempt to change the subject, added, “I did give him a kiss on the cheek. He only looked _mildly_ alarmed.”

“You didn’t!” Bethany gasped, then giggled. “His armor is so pointy, I’m surprised you didn’t accidentally stab yourself.”

“I have a talent for avoiding pointy things, it’s what keeps me alive,” Hawke joked as they climbed the stairs to Gamlen’s hovel. Home sweet home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 20 July 2019: fixed some typos and made some minor stylistic changes.


	2. Tranquility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke walks a difficult line between caution and desire. Fenris attempts to sort out his tangled feelings towards Hawke.

“That chest is pretty close to full, now.” Varric remarked, looking up from the manuscript he was scribbling.

Before Hawke had met Varric, she’d been keeping her coin stash hidden in various nooks around the small room she and Bethany shared in Gamlen’s home. But it had never been the most secure of places, and occasionally there would be a few silvers here and there that had supposedly evaporated into the ether – if by ether one meant Gamlen’s drinking funds. Once Varric had offered to loan her the use of a chest in his rooms, Hawke had gratefully accepted. Leandra had been horrified at the idea of storing so much money in a public drinking house, but Hawke had quickly come to trust Varric unreservedly. He was a loyal friend, but of equal importance was the fact that his affable ways hid a cunning and cautious mind. His rooms at The Hanged Man were probably more only slightly less secure than the vault in the viscount’s keep.

Hawke had been counting her precious stash, money she had earned running countless noble and not-so-noble errands all over Kirkwall. She let the last coin fall with a satisfying _clink_. “I think just a couple more jobs ought to do it.” A fleeting smile crossed her face. “I suppose I should be grateful that Kirkwall offers so many opportunities to those short of both coin and scruples.”

Varric chuckled. “You can pretend to be a heartless rogue all you want, Hawke, but the only one more concerned with morals in our merry band of misfits is our resident Guard-Captain.”

“Don’t you dare put that in any of your stories. I have a reputation to think of.”

Varric tapped his quill thoughtfully on his inkwell. “I’m thinking, does the infamous Hawke wrestle darkspawn on her days off? Or maybe eat abominations for breakfast?”

“That sounds like the perfect recipe for indigestion.” Hawke grimaced, standing up from her crouch and stretching her legs. She paused and looked down ruefully, realizing that the right leg of her trousers had worn right through the knee. _As if I didn’t look like enough of a hobo._ Any coin that didn’t make into the chest went to mundane necessities for the family. Gamlen was always nagging at them to “contribute to expenses,” and Hawke hated the idea of being indebted to him in even the smallest way.

When she looked back up, Varric was studiously looking at his manuscript in a way that told her he had also noticed her ragged garments but was trying to spare her any embarrassment. She had to smile. “Has anyone told you that you have a heart of gold, Varric?”

“Only when they owe me money,” he deadpanned.

Hawke laughed as she threw herself in one of his plush armchairs. “You can be as cynical as you want, but I know it’s the truth.”

“Hawke, you’re making me blush.” Varric chuckled, putting down his quill before changing the subject. “If you’re not busy today, we should really go and look for that former Warden we dug up a while ago. Fifty sovereigns is going to get us nowhere if we can’t find a way into the Deep Roads.”

Hawke sighed. “Just how I want to spend my afternoon: scrounging around Darktown in search of an errant Grey Warden mage. Something tells me he’s going to be slightly unhinged and most likely dangerous, like all my other friends.”

“He’s a healer, by the rumors. He’ll probably a quiet, gentle soul who couldn’t say boo to a nug. Maker, he probably takes in stray cats.”

“With my bloody luck, I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t skin them and wear them as hats,” Hawke said glumly.

Varric looked at her, curious. “You’ve been avoiding this errand for a while, Hawke. It’s not like you.”

Hawke shrugged, trying to be casual. “We already have two mages that we need to worry about, Varric; if we start fraternizing with apostates as a rule we might as well send the Templars a gilded invitation for afternoon tea.”

“You’re not wrong. Still, what choice do we have? We need a way in, and this guy is our best shot.” Varric looked thoughtful. “Maybe leave Broody behind on this one, though. He already has a stick up his ass about Daisy; I don’t know if his liver would survive us adopting another mage into our happy little family.”

Hawke tried to smother the guilt flaring up at Varric’s words. _Another mage_. If only they knew. It’s not that she didn’t trust Varric to keep her secret. She was already trusting him (and everyone else, for that matter) with Bethany’s. But her magic was a part of her that she’d always loathed. She’d submitted to her father’s training up to a certain point, mostly because she’d known it would have been stupid and dangerous to think ignoring the problem would make it go away. But she’d only wanted to learn enough to make sure she’d be able to keep the demons at bay and hide her abilities from the world. Beyond that, she wasn’t interested. Bethany had embraced her magic, flourished under Malcolm’s guidance. To her, magic was part of who she was. To Hawke, magic was an unwelcome inheritance, like a crooked nose or an extra toe, only infinitely more dangerous. She chose not to let it define her, and she told herself that was why it was unnecessary to tell her friends about this part of herself. Once people knew, you were branded a mage first and foremost. That’s not who she wanted to be.

As for Fenris… Fenris had an all-too-legitimate grievance against mages; the pain that magic had inflicted on his life was literally etched into his skin.  She had looked him in the face as he’d told her his story, his eyes hard as polished emeralds but brittle as well, burning with an inner pain that she could only begin to guess at, and she had taken the coward’s way out. She could see in her mind all too clearly the look of disgust and betrayal that would have contorted his features had she revealed that the woman he was indebted to was one of _them._ That would have hurt worse than any knife. Though _why_ his contempt - the contempt of a man she barely knew - would cause her so much pain was something she wasn’t really ready to reflect upon. _Because I am a silly bint. I might as well tattoo it on my forehead at this stage._

“Hawke?” Varric’s voice snapped her back to reality. He was looking at her with barely-hidden amusement. “I didn’t know mentioning our resident angst-ridden elf would render you speechless. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Hawke felt her cheeks turn hot. “Don’t be ridiculous, Varric, I was just wondering how we’re going to stop Fenris from spitting in this Warden’s face as a way of saying hello.”

“We’ll just tell the new guy it’s a Tevinter thing.” Varric suggested.

***

In the end, Hawke decided she’d have to ask Fenris to come with them after all. Her embarrassing incident in front of The Hanged Man last week had convinced her that she had to be more cautious, and Darktown was not the friendliest neighborhood in Kirkwall, even in broad daylight. ( _Was_ there a friendly neighborhood in Kirkwall? Hawke had yet to find one.) Fenris and Aveline were the only warriors they had, and she was conscious that as the new Guard-Captain Aveline needed to keep her nose clean now more than ever. Furthermore, Bethany had walked in on Hawke and Varric discussing their visit to Darktown and had decided she was joining them, absolutely refusing to take no for an answer. Her sister’s Void-taken stubbornness did not often manifest itself, but when it did, Hawke knew it was best to just accept the inevitable. She had to save her energy for the battles with Bethany that did matter. At least this time there were no Templars involved.

And so she found herself sneaking into Fenris’s mansion, choosing a moment when no guards were walking past so as to avoid questions as to why she was entering a building that was ostensibly abandoned. The dimness inside caused her to blink as she waited for her eyes to adjust. All the curtains were drawn, and the air smelled musty and old. She wrinkled her nose. _At least the dead bodies are gone. They really didn’t add much to the ambience, unless one is aiming for “rot and decay.” Fenris strikes me as more of a “blood and fury” sort of person._

She climbed the main staircase and entered what was probably once the parlor, where Fenris was sitting in a fancy if somewhat dusty armchair with a wine bottle in hand. “Hawke,” he greeted her.

“Fenris,” she replied. “Busy afternoon, I see.”

Fenris smiled slightly. “Danarius’s wine cellars won’t empty themselves.”

She walked up to him, boldly taking the bottle and swigging the contents. “Mmm.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Fenris.”

He looked up at her, impassive. “Do you not?”

“No. This is an exquisite vintage, and it will completely spoil your tastebuds. You’ll never want to drink at The Hanged Man again.”

Her unexpected reply surprised a genuine laugh out of him. “Far be it from me to ever turn down alcohol, regardless of its quality.”

“A philosophy I can get behind,” she grinned, handing him the bottle back. Their fingertips touched briefly, and she could feel a tingle where his skin had brushed against hers. _Don’t be a silly bint, Hawke. Don’t do it._

“I was hoping I might ask a favor of you,” she began, but he interrupted.

“Why are you nervous?”

“What?” She looked at him, nonplussed. “I’m not nervous.”

He cocked his head to one side. “You chew your lip when you’re nervous, Hawke.”

Her fingers flew to her mouth. _So much for not being the silly bint._ With an effort she pressed her lips together, feeling the color rise in her cheeks. “Ahem.” She cleared her throat. “As I was saying. I was hoping you could come with us to Darktown today.”

She quickly explained to him the nature of their errand. He listened without interrupting, the only reaction a slight narrowing of his eyes at the mention of the Warden being a mage. When she was finished, he stood up.

Hawke stepped back, startled. “Where are you going?”

“To Darktown, as you just finished explaining.” He looked at her like she was an idiot. “Is that not the favor you were asking of me?”

“Er, yes.” she stammered, trying to regain her mental footing. “Sorry, I… I thought you were going to need more persuading.”

His mouth quirked in what could only be amusement. “Should I have held out for another kiss then?”

Hawke found herself wondering if she could come up with a spell that would open the earth and mercifully swallow her whole, leaving no trace behind. She was beyond blushing; she was probably about to spontaneously combust judging by the heat in her cheeks.

She quickly turned away, but Fenris’s voice froze her in place, oddly contrite. “I apologize, that was rude of me, Hawke.”

Hawke took in a quiet breath, composing herself before whirling around with her usual mischievous grin. “And here I thought you were always the perfect gentleman.”

Fenris made a mock bow, offering his hand to Hawke in a parody of a ballroom dance. Hawke reflexively put her hand in his, and he lifted it gracefully, pressing the back of her hand to his lips in a deliberate kiss. She almost shamed herself again with a squeak that would have definitely been another mark on the “silly bint” side of the ledger. His lips were surprisingly soft and warm, and her hand felt unusually small, caught between his strong fingers. “Is this the polite way to apologize then?”

She cleared her throat and tried to sound light-hearted. “That will do this time. But only because I’m feeling generous. Next time it’ll be a beheading at the very least.”

He let go of her hand, his mouth still caught up in a half-smile. “I am ever grateful for your mercy.”

Hawke had only known Fenris for a short while, but every time she thought she knew him, he managed to surprise her. She had seen him coldly slicing men in two with his blade, gruffly offering sympathy to the downtrodden, even joking with Varric about his chest hair. And now here he was, _flirting_ with her. What was next? Was he going to confess to secretly being a blood mage and having a proclivity for wearing women’s underwear?

“Is there something on your mind?” Fenris asked, bringing her out of her thoughts. “You look… perturbed.”

“It’s nothing,” she said evasively, making a mental note to practice a more neutral facial expression for the next time she was imagining Fenris prancing around in lace panties. “Varric and Bethany are waiting for us. Shall we?”

***

Their contact had said something cryptic about a lantern when they’d asked her how to find the healer, and so Hawke, Bethany, Varric, and Fenris found themselves wandering around the tangled alleyways in search of said lantern. Occasionally they would pause for Bethany to politely ask one of the local denizens for directions. She had a good sense for who would be more likely to help them as opposed to stab them. At one point, they found themselves surrounded by a ragged, hostile group of maybe a dozen people, armed with crude clubs and rusty knives. Hawke had instantly gone for her daggers, but Bethany had somehow managed to appeal to the mob, who turned out to be a group of Fereldans just looking to protect the mysterious healer Hawke was seeking.

“Such loyalty is hardly to be expected in this cesspit of humanity,” Fenris murmured as the mob quickly dispersed following Bethany’s earnest appeal. “This healer must be nothing short of the second coming of Andraste.”

Finally they caught sight of a lit lantern hanging outside a half-open door; an odd sight in the middle of the day. Hawke motioned for everyone to stop before they entered. “Why don’t I go in first to say hello? I think he might be a bit alarmed if we all go traipsing in there at once.”

“ _Now_ who’s being foolish?” Bethany protested.

Varric rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, but… are you sure about this, Hawke?”

Fenris said nothing, waiting silently for her decision. She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered by his trust in her wisdom or disappointed in his seeming indifference to her safety. _Definitely being a silly bint again, Marian Hawke_. “I’ll be fine, and all of you will be no more than twenty steps away. The door won’t even be closed.” She grinned. “Should we agree on a distress signal?”

“If we hear you screaming, we’ll assume you’re in distress,” Varric replied dryly.

“So reassuring.” Hawke gave Bethany’s arm a squeeze before entering the building.

It was rather dim, as were most places in Darktown. Some errant sunlight filtered in through invisible cracks in the creaky ceiling overhead. Makeshift straw pallets took up most of the space, occupied by a handful of patients in various states of injury and illness. There was a figure hunched over one of the pallets that Hawke instinctively knew was the man they were looking for. Her infrequent use of magic left her less sensitive to other mages than Bethany, but she could definitely feel the power radiating from him. Something about it felt… off, in a way that was vaguely disturbing, but she couldn’t really pinpoint why.

He was bathed in the glow of magic, working on healing a young boy lying stretched out and still. Next to him, a woman that was presumably his mother had her hands clutched together in prayer. Hawke only knew the most rudimentary of healing spells, and the intricacy of what the healer was doing made it almost impossible for her to follow his spell-weaving.

Abruptly the light disappeared. The man staggered back a little, bracing his hands against his thighs for balance. The boy stirred, coughed, opened his eyes. His mother gave a small shriek and clutched him to her tightly, sobbing her gratitude.

 _Second coming of Andraste indeed,_ Hawke thought to herself as the healer patted the woman’s hands and gave her instructions to let the boy rest for a few more days. _What is a mage like this doing in the bowels of Darktown?_

The man suddenly stiffened, then whirled around in a crouch, staff at the ready as he faced Hawke. “This is a sanctuary of healing!” he barked. “You are not welcome here.”

Hawke held up her hands in a gesture of surrender, squashing her magic down tightly despite the crackle of energy that surrounded the healer. “I am not here to fight,” she said as calmly as she could manage. “I’m only here to talk. Could you please point that thing away from me?”

The man paused, then lowered his staff a fraction, his expression still wary. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Hawke.” She offered him a hand.

He stared at it as if she’d just presented him with a dead fish, but eventually granted her a brief handshake. His hands were dry and warm, his grip firm. “Anders.”

“A pleasure,” she said breezily, smiling in an attempt to be charming. He was still looking at her as if he expected her to turn into the Knight-Commander herself at any moment. His eyes were dark, underlined with shadows in a face sharp with distrust and fatigue. Despite his hostility, Hawke thought to herself that he looked fairly attractive, if one was attracted to paranoid hobo mages. He had a square jawline dotted with stubble and a tangle of golden hair, most of it pulled away from his face and tied with a strip of leather. Many of the male mages Hawke had encountered tended to be on the weedy side, but Anders was broad-shouldered despite the fact that he looked like he hadn’t had a square meal in perhaps a year.

“If you’re done judging me,” Anders said impatiently, making her jump. “Why are you here?”

Hawke realized she’d been staring and coughed. “Er, actually, I’m here with some friends. Would you mind if they came in? I promise you, they won’t bite.”

The suspicion in Anders’s eyes increased dramatically, and Hawke sighed. “One of them is also a mage. An… apostate. My sister, Bethany.”

Anders blinked, caught off-balance by this information. He hesitated, then nodded. “They can come in then.”

Bethany was already halfway in the door before Anders had quite finished his sentence. She came to stand beside Hawke, who watched with mild alarm as her sister looked at Anders through lowered lashes and smiled shyly. Hawke quickly introduced her companions to Anders. He greeted Bethany with real warmth, Varric with markedly less enthusiasm, and Fenris with outright suspicion. Hawke couldn’t really blame him. Fenris was a forbidding figure at the best of times, and Hawke could tell that he had already taken a disliking to Anders. Which wasn’t fair, really, Anders hadn’t _done_ anything worthy of animosity. Him helping the Ferelden refugees in Darktown was actually quite commendable. One would think Fenris, a former slave, would approve of someone helping the downtrodden. _His hatred is so… absolute. It consumes him._ It was a disquieting thought.

“So, are you with the Wardens then?” Anders queried, crossing his arms. “I can tell you right now, I’m not going back. Those bastards made me get rid of my cat.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow in unexpected amusement. “You… had a cat? While you were fighting darkspawn?”

“Poor Ser Pounce-a-lot.” Anders said mournfully. “They made me give him away, said he was making me weak.”

Hawke shook her head, a little bemused at this unexpected turn of conversation. “I’m sure Ser Pounce-a-lot is much happier wherever he is now than when he was in the Deep Roads.”

“He was less scared of the darkspawn than some Wardens.” Anders insisted. “Once he bit a genlock on the nose. Drew blood too.”

The image of a darkspawn with a cat hanging off its nose made Hawke chuckle despite herself. Anders grinned in response, looking far less hostile than he had just moments before.

“I thought being a Warden was for life,” Bethany interjected. Was she _batting her eyelashes_ at this scruffy man, a fugitive apostate who was half a step away from being homeless? Hawke felt like she was channeling her mother as she tried to rein in her mounting disapproval. Bethany was an adult. She was perfectly free to fall for a hobo mage if she wanted to.

Anders laughed humorlessly. “The terrible dreams about darkspawn and the markedly shortened lifespan, you are stuck with for life, yes. But you can physically leave the Wardens, if you are… determined enough.”

“Well, as you may have deduced by now, we are not with the Wardens.” Hawke shrugged. “We are looking for a safe entrance into the Deep Roads, and we were hoping you could help.”

Varric briefly explained the expedition to Anders, whose expression darkened as he listened. “If I never see the inside of the Deep Roads again it will be too soon,” he said vehemently.

“We’re not asking you to come with us, necessarily.” Hawke tried to be placating. “If you could draw us a map, maybe? Or even point us in a general direction? Anything would be better than what we have now.”

Anders was silent, and Hawke could sense that he was turning something over in his mind. “I do have maps,” he admitted at length. “And I will give them to you. For a price.”

Varric sighed. “Didn’t anyone teach you never to haggle with a dwarf, Blondie?”

“Not coin. A favor for a favor.” Anders narrowed his eyes. “A friend of mine, Karl, is being held by the Templars. I need help getting him out of Kirkwall.”

Hawke could hear Fenris shifting on his feet behind her. _Please don’t stab the hobo mage, we still need his maps._ “You must be mad,” was all he said.

Hawke was inclined to agree with his laconic assessment. She cleared her throat. “What my friend means to say is… fighting Templars seems, shall we say, somewhat ill-advised?”

“Karl is a good man and a danger to no one.” Anders face darkened with the beginnings of rage. Hawke blinked; she thought she had glimpsed the man almost _glowing_ , but… no, she must have been mistaken. “Andraste said that magic was to serve man, never to rule over him, but I’ve never met a mage that wanted to rule over anything or anyone.”

“And I’ve never met a mage that hasn’t,” Fenris retorted, though he had the grace to look slightly chagrined when Bethany gave him a reproachful look.

Anders chose to ignore the elf’s outburst, turning to Hawke with a pleading expression. “I swear to you, Karl would have done nothing to merit suspicion from the Templars. He is a kind and gentle soul. We can get him out without having to confront the Templars directly. I’ve been exchanging letters with him, and all he wants is to be free of the Gallows. He doesn’t want anyone hurt either.” He looked at Bethany. “Your own sister is a mage. Don’t you have any sympathy for the mages being abused by the Templars here in Kirkwall? It could be her having to endure that!”

Hawke felt any warmth she was feeling towards Anders suddenly vanish. Anders must have seen something change in her eyes, for he took a step back, expression suddenly wary. “I would prefer you do not bring my sister into this,” Hawke said, attempting for a neutral tone.

“Marian.” Bethany put a placating hand on her elbow.

“Now, now.” Varric stepped forward, getting between Hawke and Anders. “No need to start getting personal. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer cold hard coin, Blondie? We’re willing to pay well for those maps.”

Anders shook his head. “I’ve told you my terms,” he declared abruptly. “If you want those maps, meet me at the Chantry at midnight. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have sick people to attend to.”

***

Hawke decided she needed some sea air to clear her head, so they took a walk to the docks and bought some pies from a nearby stall for lunch. Fenris ate his with indifference – he didn’t really care what was in it, so long as it wasn’t fish. He observed Hawke finish off her pie as she watched a merchant’s ship come to dock, the sailors all shouting pleasant obscenities at each other, the clanging of metal against wood, the thumping of cargo being tossed onto the pier. She absentmindedly sucked the grease off one of her fingers, and he had to look away for a moment as his mind betrayed him with lewd thoughts. When he looked back, she had her profile to him, still looking out to sea. Her dark hair was caught up in its usual bit of red cloth, unruly tendrils clinging to her angled cheekbones. Her amber eyes caught the light reflecting off the water, reminding him of an exotic beast he had once seen caged at the estate of a Tevinter magister. A lioness, they had called it. She’d spent most of her time lounging around on her back, seemingly half-asleep, but Fenris remembered her eyes. They were not the eyes of a complacent creature. They were the eyes of a predator biding its time. Waiting for the right moment to strike.

“Well, Hawke?” Varric finally broke the silence. “What’s the plan?”

“We _have_ to help him,” Bethany said decisively, her blue eyes wide and pleading. “You would help me if the Templars caught me, wouldn’t you, Mari?”

Hawke eyed her sister. “Right at this moment, I’d be tempted to let them have you.”

“Don’t joke about this!” Bethany drew herself, seemingly on the verge of an explosion, but she glanced at Fenris and Varric and instead made a loud noise of frustration. “Ugh! Marian, what choice do we have? We need those maps! Unless you want to be stuck living in Gamlen’s spare room for the rest of our natural lives?”

“We don’t _need_ the maps,” Hawke said stubbornly. “At this point it’s a choice between wading through darkspawn or risking open conflict with the Templars. I don’t know why you are so eager to poke that nest of hornets.”

“Darkspawn are predictable,” Fenris remarked. “Mages are not. Why do you trust this Anders to keep up his end of the bargain?”

Bethany whirled on him. “How can you be so unfeeling about mages being held captive when you _know_ what it’s like to have freedom taken away from you?”

“Mages are a danger to themselves and to others.” Bethany glared at him, the lines of rage in her face bringing out an uncanny family resemblance, but Fenris pressed on. “You are a good person, Bethany,” he conceded. “But you are the exception, not the norm. The power that mages have access to would tempt even the noblest of men to corruption.”

“So you think we should lock all of them up because some of them _might_ go mad?” Hawke had turned around to face him, her face an unreadable mask for once. _Lioness._ “Do I have to worry about you betraying my sister to the Templars, Fenris?”

She had never looked at him with such coldness and distance in her face, and it stung more than he cared to admit. “I would never betray you or those that are yours, Hawke.”

“Hm.” Hawke gave him a measuring look before turning her attention back to Bethany. “Let’s get one thing clear. You are going nowhere near the Chantry tonight, Bethy, and if I have to get Isabela to chain you to her bed to stop you from following us, I will.”

Varric snorted and tried to cover it up with a cough. Bethany looked outraged. “It’s no more dangerous for me than it is for any of you!”

“That’s not true.” Hawke snapped. “If we are caught, the worst case scenario is we’ll probably be jailed. If _you_ get caught, the _best_ case scenario is they drag you off to the Gallows. The _worst_ case scenario is they will. Chop. Off. Your. Head.” Hawke bit off each word for emphasis. “Somewhere in between those is making you Tranquil.”

“They would have no right!” Bethany protested.

“Do you think they’ll _care?_ ” Hawke was almost shouting. “You’ve seen how the Templars in this city treat mages. You don’t think being an apostate mage caught trying to help another apostate mage is going to be justification enough for them?”

“I can pretend I’m not a mage,” Bethany insisted stubbornly. Hawke’s eyes lit up and for a moment Fenris wondered if she was going to strangle her sister on the spot. Instead she clenched her fists and gritted her teeth.

“If you are in danger, you will cast a spell without thought,” she said, slowly and deliberately. “That is your only weapon, sister, the only one you know how to use. Do you really want to be in a situation where you have to choose between your life and your freedom?”

Bethany fell silent, her face pale and defeated.  Hawke sighed, taking one of her sister’s hands. “Please, Bethany. I don’t question your bravery or your fighting skills. But a battle with the Templars is one we can’t win.”

“It’s not right, what they do.” Bethany said in a low voice.

Hawke hugged her sister, obviously relieved that her sister had finally given in. “I’ll be sure to wag my finger at them next time we have Meredeth over for tea.”

“You made the right choice, Sunshine.” Varric patted her shoulder. “Besides, I don’t think you could have survived being chained up in Isabela’s bed.”

“I still think this is madness,” Fenris objected. “Helping a strange mage defy the Templars is foolish enough, but helping a mage we haven’t even met to escape and be free to wreak havoc?”

Hawke whirled around, hands on hips. “I won’t force you to come with us, Fenris,” she said, her mild tone belying the smoldering fire in her eyes. “If you can’t bring yourself to be part of this little adventure, I’ll ask Isabela to come with us instead.”

Fenris let out a breath, exasperated. _Stubborn woman_. “With three rogues and a mage, you’d all be the work of two swings of a greatsword.”

“Well, then, we’ll just have to dodge. A lot.” Hawke shrugged and smiled sweetly.

Fenris grunted and resigned himself to the inevitable. “Fine, I will accompany you on this mad errand, but if the mage shows any sign of betraying us, or turning his magic to foul ends, I will rip his heart out and feed it to him.”

“Ugh.” Hawke made a face. “A simple ‘all right, Hawke, I’ve got your back’ would have sufficed.”

Varric clucked his tongue. “You’re so melodramatic sometimes, Broody. I’ll have to remember that line for my next chapter.”

***

“Well, that was a disaster.”

It was still the middle of the night. Hawke was walking through Hightown with Fenris after a complete fiasco at the Chantry. Anders had disappeared soon after the fight, saying he needed to be alone. Varric had followed suit, citing the need for a drink. Hawke had been tempted, but she told Varric that she’d catch up with him later. There was a lot for her to process, and she needed a clear head. Fenris had wordlessly fallen into step beside her, and here they were, wandering around Hightown.

It had been a trap, but not one set by the mages, as Fenris had predicted. It had been set by the Templars. They had intercepted the correspondence between Karl and Anders, and they’d known Anders was coming. Thankfully there had only been a few of them lying in wait. Varric had searched their bodies and found a note that implied this whole operation had been plotted in secret by a fringe element in the Order. They’d left the note for other to find, hoping that once the bodies were discovered the investigation would focus more on the Templar’s own misdeeds rather than who had been responsible for all their deaths. _Not bloody likely,_ Hawke thought darkly. She thanked the Maker that she had succeeded in keeping Bethany out of this mess, whatever the outcome ended up being.

She kept replaying that moment over and over in her head. After the battle, the mage they’d come to rescue – Karl – looking at them with wide eyes, lucid and emotional. Somehow, Anders had done something that had briefly healed Karl’s connection to the Fade. And then, watching as the spark in his eyes disappeared, watching his eyes growing flat and dull, devoid of any emotion. It had been worse than watching someone die. _That could happen to Bethany._

 _That could happen to me_.

Fenris was watching her as they walked. “Are you referring to the fact that this Anders seems to be harboring a demon?”

Hawke heard the hint of an _I told you so_ in his voice and wondered if she could get away with punching him in the gut. “We don’t know that it was a demon, Fenris. And no, that’s not exactly the first thing on my mind at the moment.” _Though it probably merits being second on the list._ Definitely something she’d have to confront Anders about, sooner rather than later.

“You are upset that the other mage died?” Fenris sounded puzzled. “He was a stranger.”

Hawke stopped in her tracks so suddenly that Fenris walked a few steps past her before pausing and turning around. “Do you have any idea what they did to him? They made him _Tranquil_. Against his will, when he’d done nothing to deserve it! Even Chantry law forbids making mages Tranquil after they’ve passed their Harrowing. I knew the Templar Order in Kirkwall was corrupt, but this…” She tried to repress a shudder.

Fenris looked unconvinced. “If there is a way to make mages less dangerous without killing them--”

“I’d rather be dead!” Hawke said viciously. “Didn’t you see his eyes, Fenris? There was nothing there. He was … a shell. An empty shell, going through the motions. At least a slave can feel rage against their captors, a desire for revenge. Tranquil don’t even have that. They feel _nothing._ Is that what you would have wanted for yourself?” She leaned closer to him, her mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “To feel _nothing_ whenever Danarius ordered you to do something against your own will?”

Fenris grabbed her so abruptly that she had no time to react. The tips of his gauntlets dug painfully into her upper arms as he held her with an iron grip. “You know _nothing_ of what it is to be a slave,” he said through clenched teeth.

“No, I don’t, but you do,” she said defiantly, meeting him glare for glare. “And that makes it even worse, that you can’t acknowledge an agony that is so similar to your own.”

He went very still, staring down at her, and she felt she could lose herself in the fathomless viridian of his eyes. She suddenly became acutely aware that he was clutching her close – _very_ close – and felt a tingle of desire blossom low in her belly, tracing a fiery line that followed where his body was touching hers. She simultaneously felt the desire to knee him where it would hurt and press her hips harder against his. _You’re not a silly bint, Marian Hawke, you’re a_ crazy _bint. What the hell is wrong with you?_

“Why do you care so much about these mages?” Fenris finally demanded. His grip had not softened. “Most of them are utter strangers to you. Some have even tried to kill you.”

 _Shit._ Hawke suddenly felt like a rabbit trapped in the jaws of a wolf. Her heart hammered in her throat, a steady drum beat that filled her head. All she could see were those brittle emeralds piercing her soul, and she distantly wondered if it was her death that she saw in them. _Does he know?_ She felt fear, but also… despair? Despair at the knowledge that her hidden burden would instantly render her inhuman in the eyes of this man, this unknowable, dangerous man that she felt this irresistible, illogical pull towards.

“I suppose I can’t help but sympathize with the desire to be free,” she said softly, hating how tremulous her voice sounded to her own ears. “You look at mages, and you see Danarius in all of them, but I see…” _Myself._ “My sister. I imagine how warped and twisted she could have become, if things had been different.” She couldn’t stop talking. “I know you think I’m being a silly bint, but I can’t pretend I feel differently, and if that makes you hate me, then you’re free to leave, you don’t have to feel like you have to stay because of some stupid debt, you don’t owe me anything--”

He kissed her, and she fell silent.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. He pressed his mouth to hers violently, hungrily, like a drowning man seeking a gasp of air. She instinctively parted her lips and tasted his tongue, hot and faintly bitter against her own. He bit down on her bottom lip and she heard herself moan. The pain in her arms where he held her seemed distant, as if it belonged to someone else. She arched her back so her hips were thrust against his, parted her legs so she was half riding his thigh. Even through the layers of clothing she could feel that he was hard as iron. She kissed him again and again, desire flooding her senses until her body seemed to pulse with it.

“Get a room, you two!” someone shouted drunkenly as he stumbled past.

Hawke pulled away as Fenris let her go, feeling hot with embarrassment as she took a few more steps back, putting her hands to her cheeks. She took a deep, shaky breath. _Maker, what was that?_

“I… apologize, Hawke.” Fenris said in a low voice, looking as flustered as she had ever seen him. “It was a foolish impulse. Forgive me.”

Hawke laughed, trying not to sound hysterical. “You don’t have to apologize, Fenris. That was…” she cleared her throat. “You don’t have to apologize,” she repeated lamely.

He looked at her searchingly, a hint of a smile hovering on his lips. “That’s… generous of you, Hawke.” He held out his hand in an oddly formal gesture. She let him have hers without thinking, and he carefully brought it to his lips, never breaking his gaze on her face. “I’ll say good night then. My lady.” Was he mocking her again? His lips were still curved in a faint smile, but his eyes smoldered with something else entirely.

She swallowed. “Um. Right, then. Good night, Fenris.”

As she watched him stride away, Hawke tried to calm the hammering of her heart. _Well, it has been an eventful evening._ She felt instantly more sober as she recalled the conversation that had led to the impromptu snogging session. Hopefully said session had proved enough of a distraction. Not that she had planned to distract him. He had kissed her first, hadn’t he? _Apparently babbling like a silly bint was the secret to seducing him after all_. She stifled a giggle as she turned and headed back to Lowtown.

***

Fenris closed the door to his mansion and leaned back on it for moment, reflecting on what had just happened. Initially, after that night in Lowtown when she’d let her guard down, he’d told himself that she was not someone he could ever dream of being with in any capacity. But then he’d found himself flirting with her when she’d stopped by just that morning, and she had definitely not dissuaded his advances. It had emboldened him a little. She was an attractive woman, and life on the run had been a lonely one. He’d thought they could find a much-welcome physical release with each other, if she was willing.

But then when he’d grabbed her in his rage and looked into her eyes, something had welled up in him that went deeper than mere lust. It was that damn vulnerability again, looking out from behind those golden eyes. It was that pain he’d glimpsed before, only this time up close. She’d felt fragile in his hands, and her voice had trembled with emotion. When he’d kissed her, it had been pure impulse, not a calculated seduction. He had been overwhelmed with the desire to comfort her, to ravish her, to lose himself in her flesh, to possess her utterly and completely.

That was what worried him.

His life as a slave had taught him to separate sex from emotion. Before he’d escaped, sex had always been tied up in pain and humiliation, and separating the two had been a defense mechanism, a way to survive without going mad. He’d been with a few women, afterwards, but they were all women he barely knew and hadn’t cared to know. He’d used sex purely as a form of physical catharsis. And when he’d first realized his own attraction to Hawke, he’d thought of it only in carnal terms. Of course, he respected her as a fighter. He admired her courage, her convictions, even though they often different from his own. Those emotions were separate from his desire for her body. But tonight had made him realize that maybe the line between lust and everything else was not as fast as he’d thought.

It was unfamiliar territory for him, sorting through such complex emotions. As a slave, life had been simpler. People were either worthy of hatred or indifference, and there hadn’t been need for much in-between, most of the time. And now, Hawke.

She had been eager enough tonight. The way she’d met his kiss with a hunger equal to his own, her hips rubbing against his erection with no shame… he cleared his throat, feeling himself getting hard all over again.

Tonight had done nothing but sharpen the edge of his desire. But was it wise to pursue this course?

 _It’s just lust_ , he told himself. Hawke was no blushing virgin. If they both wanted it, there was no reason why they shouldn’t finish what they’d started.

It was the logical answer, but Fenris felt dissatisfied in a way he couldn’t articulate, even to himself. With a disgusted grunt, he made his way downstairs to plunder the wine cellar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20 June 2019: fixed some typos, made some minor stylistic changes


	3. Enemies Among Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quest involving blood magic gives Hawke ample opportunity to wonder where her relationship with Fenris is headed.

Hawke closed the chest with a sigh, having counted all the coins twice over. It seemed like she’d been working towards those damned fifty sovereigns for eternity. An eternity spent rubbing elbows with Kirkwall’s least salubrious citizens. An eternity spent enduring Gamlen’s not-so-subtle digs about the sacrifices he had to make for his family. An eternity spent facing her mother’s gently disappointed face every time she came home late at night, disheveled and blood-spattered.

Varric interrupted her thoughts. “Well?”

Hawke mentally shook herself, trying to clear her head of her maudlin musings. “So close, but not quite there yet.”

“Isn’t that _always_ the way,” Isabela laughed throatily, curled up in one of Varric’s arm chairs.

Hawke rolled her eyes. “It’s been a slow burn, that’s for certain. And after all this foreplay who knows if it’ll even pay off in the end?”

“No one ever says that after being with me.” Isabela purred.

Varric cleared his throat from behind his desk. “Not to interrupt the girly chit-chat, but I think I might have the job you’re looking for, Hawke. There’s been a woman outside the Chantry these past few days, asking for help looking for her brother.”

Hawke frowned, remembering how the last missing person quest errand had ended. An unpleasant image flashed into her mind, and she shook her head to clear it of the gruesome memories. She could feel Varric watching her with concern and perversely chose to be flippant in reply. “People go missing every day in this Maker-forsaken city, Varric. What makes this one worth our time?”

“He’s a Templar.”

Hawke’s eyebrows shot up. “I would say that makes this potential job the complete opposite of tempting.”

“Oh, come on, Hawke. You’re looking for good coin, and the Templars have it.” Varric lowered his voice, despite the door being locked and only the three of them present. “Besides, I’ve heard more rumors about something going on with the newer Templar recruits. Whatever it is, they’re not sharing it with anyone else. Probably because it’s embarrassing for those uptight bastards to admit that they don’t have everything under control.”

“So… you think if I humiliate them by doing their job for them, they’re going to feel grateful enough to pay me for the pleasure?” Hawke asked with a disbelieving laugh.

“Ooh! Kinky!” Isabela grinned. “But you know, it’s always the tight-laced ones that enjoy being humiliated the most.”

Hawke snorted. “I don’t think the Templars would enjoy being humiliated by me quite as much as they might enjoy the same treatment from you.”

“How about we try for _subtle_ this time, Hawke?” Varric interrupted dryly. “You’re right that the Templars aren’t going to enjoy a public spanking. But if you solve their problem _quietly_ and make them realize that you’ve saved them a lot of trouble, I think you’ll find they’ll be happy to pay you to keep your mouth shut about the whole thing.”

“Varric, I’m surprised at you.” Hawke looked at him with widened eyes, a hand over her mouth in feigned shock. “Are you suggesting that I _blackmail_ the most sacred defenders of the Chantry?”

“If it really bothers you, you can confess to Choir-boy afterwards,” Varric suggested.

Isabela chuckled her naughtiest chuckle. “Yes, Hawke, make sure to tell him you’ve been a very, very bad girl.”

Hawke pointedly ignored the pirate as she took a moment to seriously consider what Varric had said. “All right, you have a point, Varric. I suppose it’s worth checking out, at least.”

 “Will you take me this time? _Please_?” Isabela looked at Hawke with her blue eyes as wide as they would go. “I haven’t had any fun in ages. And I could use some coin. My purse is pathetically light these days.”

“It’s fine, take her,” Varric waved them off. “I have a manuscript to finish tonight anyway.”

Hawke looked wounded. “I’ll be lost without you, Varric. No one can replace my favorite dwarf.”

“I can do anything Varric can, only I look much better doing it. In heels, too.” Isabela stretched out her legs for emphasis, showing off her scandalous, thigh-high boots.

“I admit, Rivaini, I don’t think I’d be able to pull those off like you do.” Varric conceded.

The image of Varric stuffed into Isabela’s boots was too much for Hawke, and she grinned widely. “Now that is something I would pay to see.”

Varric snorted. “Well, then come back after the expedition, and we’ll see if you can afford it.”

***

“So if the lady is in Hightown, we might as well ask Aveline and Fenris to tag along, no?” Isabela suggested as they left The Hanged Man.

Hawke coughed and tried to sound casual, looking everywhere but at her companion. “Do we really need four people to ask a poor woman a few questions?”

“I’m surprised at you, Hawke.” Isabela arched a perfectly-shaped eyebrow. “You attract trouble like a drunk noble does whores. Having backup would be the smart thing to do. I’m assuming you want to keep Bethy out of this, what with the Templars being involved and all.”

Hawke paused and turned to look at Isabela in genuine surprise. “That sounds extremely sensible. Are you feeling all right?”

Isabela snorted and punched Hawke in the arm. “Ow!”

“You’re lucky I didn’t have a dagger handy.” Isabela looked at Hawke with a suspicious glint in her eye. “Is this because you’ve been avoiding Fenris lately?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hawke sputtered, resuming her walk through the streets of Lowtown. “All of us just played Wicked Grace two nights ago. You were there.”

“Yes, and you spent the entire night exchanging so many meaningful glances, I half expected you to start shagging on the table.” Isabela pealed with laughter at Hawke’s flushed face. “Honestly, I don’t understand what the problem is, Hawke. If you want to shag him, then just bloody get it out of your system. I don’t blame you either; he does have the best arse I’ve seen in quite a while.”

Hawke groaned. “Could we please not talk about Fenris’s arse?”

“Fine, I’ll just think about it then.”

Hawke found herself shooting a glare at Isabela before she could stop herself, but it only made the pirate laugh even louder. “Oh, Hawke! You are just precious.” She wrapped an arm around Hawke’s shoulders and gave her a playful kiss on the cheek. “If you weren’t so obviously infatuated with Fenris I’d seduce you myself. Now, I’ll go pay our manly Guard-Captain a visit, while you go and see if Fenris can fit us into his daily brooding schedule. And mind you don’t stare at his arse the whole time you’re talking to him, you’ll make the poor man blush.”

She pinched Hawke’s own arse for good measure before slipping away into the busy streets, leaving Hawke standing dumbfounded and indignant in the middle of the street.

***

 Hawke stood outside Fenris’s door, chewing her lower lip. It had been a few weeks since that night in Hightown, when they’d kissed. Since then they’d only seen each other in the company of others. _Stop being such a bint, Marian Hawke. It was just a kiss. You are a sensible grown woman, not a blushing girl in pigtails._

She was drawn to him, there was no denying that. He exuded an aura of danger that she had found irresistible from the start. But he’d also shown moments of warmth and of humor, cracks in his carefully maintained armor of broodiness, as Varric might have called it. She was attracted to all of it. But getting close would mean showing him the cracks in her own armor. It would mean that certain secrets would become harder to keep. And the secret she was keeping from him would most likely cause him to leave her forever. _Or try to kill me._

Best to keep things friendly, then. It was deeply unsatisfying, but she’d rather be friends with Fenris than do without him at all. Or end up with her heart ripped out by his bare hands.

_Kinky, as Isabela would say._

“Hawke?”

Hawke’s daggers were halfway out of their sheaths before she realized who it was. “Ah. Hello, Fenris.”

He regarded her with mild curiosity. “Are you expecting trouble?”

She could feel the heat in her cheeks as she laughed self-consciously, pushing her daggers back in place and straightening. “No more than usual, I suppose.” She took a second look at Fenris, noticing that he was carrying a canvas bag in his left hand. “I thought you’d be home at this hour.

“The larder was empty,” he shrugged. “I needed food.”

Hawke almost raised her eyebrows before she could stop herself. For some reason it never occurred to her that someone like Fenris did mundane tasks like going to the market for provisions. _What, did you think he feasted on the blood of his enemies?_

“I thought Danarius’s wine cellar was what kept you going,” she remarked lightly.

He huffed in amusement. “Most days, yes, but unfortunately no one can live on fine wine alone. Have you eaten?”

Hawke stared at him as if he had asked something indecent. “Eaten?”

“Lunch. Have you eaten lunch?” He spoke slowly, enunciating each word as if he were speaking to a half-wit. Hawke cleared her throat. “No, no I haven’t.”

“Well, then, you’re welcome to join me, though it is hardly what one would call fancy. With the exception of the wine, of course.”

Hawke shrugged, recovering her equilibrium as Fenris opened the front door. “Whatever it is, it’s probably far fancier than anything I’ve eaten this past week.” She saw two city guards eyeing them casually as they strode past and made a mental note to have a word to Aveline about it. The last thing they needed was to be in direct conflict with the city guard.

Fenris had bought bread, cheese, and a whole roasted chicken at the marketplace, and they washed it down with a tart red wine as they ate, sitting companionably on a velvet settee. After Hawke had filled him in on the new job they were pursing, he agreed to accompany with her without too much discussion. He was never one for small talk, so Hawke found herself nattering on in an attempt to keep the silence at bay, filling him in on what had kept her occupied in the past couple of weeks.

“So you’ve managed to acquire a share in a mine while earning the title of dragonslayer since we last spoke,” Fenris observed. “No one would accuse you of idleness, Hawke.”

“Well, it’s not like I wake up in the morning with a list of things to do for the day.” Hawke retorted, brushing crumbs off her lap. “All I set out to do was help some poor miners being taken advantage of by a scummy Orlesian. The dragons were incidental.”

Fenris suddenly reached over and caught her hand in his. She froze, her startled eyes darting towards his face.

“Crumbs on the floor bring mice,” he said mildly. He didn’t let go of her hand, and his eyes were creased in part amusement, part something else. She had a vivid flashback to their last encounter.

This time it was she who surged forward to kiss him. He kissed her back with startling intensity, one hand cupping her face, a calloused thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. She felt her world disappear until all she cared about was the wet warmth of his mouth against her own, the roughness of his tongue upon hers. She wanted to straddle him and run her fingers through his silver-white hair, feel the hardness of his erection between her thighs, his strong hands cupping her breasts. _Careful, Marian, you’ve already decided this is a bad idea._ At the moment it didn’t seem like a bad idea, it seemed like a brilliant idea. He was gripping the hair at the nape of her neck, pushing her against him like he meant to devour her whole, and she was more than ready to let him. But somehow she found the willpower to break away before the kiss passed the point of no return.

She wasn’t sure how Fenris would react, but he merely looked at her questioningly. She coughed, trying to hide her flustered thoughts with a jest. “Sorry, I thought that might make up for getting crumbs on your floor. Though if you prefer, I could just get you a cat.”

Fenris actually laughed, and the ring of merriment in his deep, usually deadly serious voice sent a thrill up her spine and made her regret being so sensible. “If that is your method of apology, you’re welcome to spill crumbs on my floor more often, Hawke.”

“Such a gracious host you are.” Hawke laughed a little too loudly and scrambled to her feet, her cheeks so hot that she was convinced her face was about to melt off. Though at this point it would have been a mercy. “Well, we don’t want to keep Isabela and Aveline waiting, do we? Shall we be off?” She backed away towards the door, leaving Fenris looking after her with a mixture of bewilderment and amusement.

***

It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and Hightown was filled with people out enjoying the nice weather. Hawke strode on quickly ahead of Fenris, evidently trying to forget what had just happened between them over lunch. Fenris had no experience with this whole _preamble_ between two people who were obviously mutually attracted to each other and he felt mildly confused by her inconsistent behavior, kissing him one minute and leaving post-haste the next. He had a vague idea, picked up through observation of others, that courtship between men and women involved a lot of teasing and feigning disinterest at certain times. But Hawke certainly didn’t strike him as the type of person to play those sorts of games. Though he had to admit, Hawke looking flushed and embarrassed by her own display of wanton lust just moments before had only served to heighten his desire for her. Her reddened cheeks and disheveled hair had made it easier for him to picture her completely naked, pinned under his body, her golden eyes wide and unfocused, her voice ragged and undone with passion.

He could feel himself reacting physically to these thoughts and immediately shut them down before things became too obvious. Thankfully Hawke was still preoccupied with not looking at him.

Aveline and Isabela were waiting for them in front of the Chantry, amiably bickering as was their usual wont. Aveline greeted him with a nod, Isabela with a mischievous grin that for some reason elicited a covert death glare from Hawke.

“We’ve been watching everyone while we were waiting for you, and we think it’s that woman over there.” Aveline gestured with her chin while speaking to Hawke, pointing out a young woman with short, straw-colored hair and watery blue eyes wringing her hands and pacing nervously in front of the Chantry steps. “She was pleading with a Templar earlier, but he just brushed her off like she wasn’t worth his time.”

“Pompous bastard with a stick up his arse just like any other Templar.” Isabela added amiably.

Aveline shot her a disapproving glare. “They’re not all like that.”

“Yes,” Isabela looked thoughtful. “I suppose some of them are pious hypocrites to boot.”

“All right, children, enough.” Hawke intervened hastily before the two of them could start another quarrel. “Let’s go talk to her then. Aveline, maybe you should do most of the talking. She might feel more comfortable speaking to someone in official uniform rather than three random strangers she’s never seen before.”

“One of whom is not wearing any pants.” Aveline added with a pointed look.

Isabela deliberately widened her stance, baring her legs all the way up to her thighs. “Not all of us have manly tree trunks for legs that need hiding.”

“Am I going to have to send you two to your rooms?” Hawke snapped, her patience clearly wearing thin.

As Aveline led them over to the woman (although not before muttering something about slutty pirates under her breath), Fenris took the opportunity to study Hawke while her attention was focused on glaring at Isabela, who looked defiant and chagrined all at once. Hawke was not as tall or physically imposing as either Aveline or Isabela; Aveline radiated command like she’d been born to be a Guard-Captain, and Isabela’s voluptuous figure oozed sensuality as effortlessly as she breathed. At first glance, Hawke was simply a slight, slender young woman with a pretty enough face. But there had never been a question of who the leader was of their “merry band of misfits,” as Varric liked to describe them. They were all dangerous people in their own way, but Hawke was the one that held them together, the eye in the middle of their chaotic storm.

He found himself focusing on her mouth, currently pressed into a frown directed towards Isabela, remembering how she had pressed her lips against his less than an hour ago. She had tasted faintly of salt and wine. Without warning he had a vision of her on her knees, her soft mouth wrapped around his hard cock, her dark hair disheveled, her cheeks flushed with pleasure.

“Penny for your thoughts, Fenris?” Isabela’s husky whisper was a grating interruption into his musings. He instantly schooled his face to stillness, inwardly cursing that he had allowed himself to become so distracted.

“You were thinking about something dirty, weren’t you?” she persisted with an insinuating grin.

He gave her his best blank stare, and Hawke, without taking her attention from the woman who was talking to Aveline, managed to tread heavily on Isabela’s foot without interrupting the conversation. Isabela stifled a yelp and muttered a curse under her breath but thankfully subsided.

“Keran used to write me letters every week,” the woman was saying, barely holding back tears. “But now, nothing. No word. It’s not like him at all. And the Templars won’t tell me anything. They say it’s not my business, that he’s just undergoing training like all the other new recruits.”

“Templar training _is_ rather strict,” Aveline remarked. “My… my late husband was one, so I know from experience. It’s possible your brother is just too exhausted to write as often as he used to.”

The woman shook her head violently. “Keran and I only have each other. He would _never_ forget to write; he knows I would worry. And you hear so many awful rumors about the Templars under Knight-Commander Meredith.”

“Awful rumors?” Hawke repeated questioningly.

The woman lowered her voice. “My friend has a cousin who’s a mage, and she said he was made Tranquil against his will, just for being ‘rebellious’.” Hawke blinked at that, instantly reminded of Karl. But it had been clear that Karl’s punishment had not been a sanctioned one. She’d assumed that killing the Templars in the ambush would end such despicable actions, but… Were there more like Karl? She filed the question away to ponder later. “And people helping mages… it’s said the Templars just kill them on the spot, without trial or anything. But everyone’s too scared to say anything about it openly.”

Hawke shot a warning look at Fenris as if she expected him to proclaim that anyone helping mages deserved to be chopped up and served on a platter. He felt vaguely offended at her mistrust and gave her an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. She rewarded him with a brief flash of a smile before she turned her attention back to the woman.

“We want to help if we can, Macha.” She sounded sincere as only Hawke could, putting a reassuring hand on the woman’s arm. “Can you give us any leads that might help us track down your brother?”

 The woman – Macha – clasped Hawke’s hand in her own with a kind of desperate hopefulness. “He had two friends – Wilmod and Hugh, both new recruits. They might know something about it. I tried to find them, but they threw me out of the Gallows for disturbing the peace.” She sniffled.

Aveline frowned at the last part. “That was wrong of them. They won’t throw us out so easily, I can promise you that.”

“We’ll let you know if we find anything,” Hawke added, squeezing Macha’s hand.

The woman looked ready to kiss Hawke on the spot. Instead, she managed a small curtsey. “Maker bless you and watch over you in this endeavor,” she prayed fervently.

***

Hugh was easily found in the Gallows, but Wilmod was not, and it turned out that Macha had been right about Keran – he was missing. And not only Keran, but apparently a handful of Templar recruits had managed to disappear in the past few weeks, including this Wilmod. Hugh and his friends had been willing to talk, albeit in hushed whispers while furtively glancing over their shoulders. They spoke of rumors as well; rumors that the new recruits were being abducted and forced to undergo some kind of secret initiation ceremony that tested their willingness to fully commit to the Order. Those that failed the test…

“You think Knight-Commander Meredith is _killing_ new recruits after putting them through some secret ritual?” one of the young Templar recruits – the only girl present – looked at her companions with contempt.

Hawke was inclined to agree with her – Meredith was certainly a hard-ass, but she seriously doubted the Knight-Commander would do something so transparently stupid. No woman got to Meredith’s position by being stupid. But missing Templars were undoubtedly a concern, and Meredith certainly seemed to be doing her best to keep the whole thing under wraps.

“Well, _something_ happened to Keran and Wilmod and the others,” Hugh argued, echoing Hawke’s thoughts.

“Wilmod’s back, though,” the girl retorted.

“What?” Everyone exclaimed collectively in disbelief.

“You didn’t think to lead with that piece of information?” Aveline added in exasperation.

The girl put her hands up defensively. “Knight-Captain Cullen told us to keep it quiet. Wilmod left the Gallows this morning, saying he needed to clear his head, but the Knight-Captain went after him as soon as he learned about it. They’ve been gone about an hour or so. You might catch them on the road to Sundermount.”

“And you didn’t think it was strange, the Knight-Captain telling you to shut up about a boy that’s been missing for a week?” Isabela looked amused. “They don’t recruit you Templars for your wits, do they?”

The girl stiffened. “When the Knight-Captain gives you an order, you obey,” she snapped. “I don’t expect an outsider to understand.”

“Thank you, that’s very helpful.” Hawke cut off the conversation before things became more heated. “We’ll try to catch up with them before they get too far. Good day to you then.”

They hurried away, Hawke leading them towards the city gates. “This is not going to lead to us finding Knight-Captain Cullen giving Wilmod a fatherly talk about the birds and the bees, I’m afraid,” she said grimly.

“Re _mem_ ber what Varric _said_ about being _subtle_.” Isabela warned in a sing-song. “The Templars won’t pay us for anything if we stab their precious Knight-Captain in the throat.”

“They may, if he’s gone rogue and become an embarrassment,” Fenris observed.

“Cullen doesn’t strike me as the type to go rogue,” Aveline mused as they strode along at a quick pace. “But you’re probably right, Hawke, this won’t lead to anything good.”

Hawke laughed humorlessly. “Does anything ever?”

***

They reached the road to Sundermount in good time and followed it in cautious silence, falling into a natural formation: Hawke in front, Aveline and Fenris on either side of her, and Isabela bringing up the rear. All bickering had ceased; none of them could predict what lay ahead, but they shared the sense that some sort of conflict was imminent. Tension vibrated through the group like tightly wound lute strings, but it was a tension of a shared readiness, not of fear. Hawke found it oddly comforting.

She heard voices ahead and stopped in her tracks, her companions immediately freezing in tandem. She could pick out two voices – presumably Wilmod and Cullen – and waited just long enough to make sure there weren’t any more before advancing around the corner to confront them.

All of them knew Cullen by sight – a tall, square-jawed blond man with a neatly trimmed beard and dark eyes that always seemed to burn fitfully, an odd contrast to the rest of his conventionally handsome face. He had a younger man by the collar and was shaking him fiercely.

“Andraste be my witness, Wilmod, I will have the truth from you!” he bellowed.

“Please don’t hurt me, ser.” Wilmod begged, his eyes wide with fear. He was a pale, spindly youth and clearly no match for the Knight-Captain, in strength or in spirit.

Neither of them seemed to realize they had company just yet. Cullen kneed Wilmod in the stomach, hard, and threw him to the ground in anger, ignoring his grunt of pain. Then he drew his sword.

“I will know where you’ve been.” He pointed his blade at Wilmod menacingly. “And I will know now.”

“Well, isn’t this a lovely surprise,” Hawke said loudly, causing Cullen to start and stare wildly. Wilmod seemed too paralyzed with fear to move. “I always thought Templars were just mean to mages. It’s good to know you’re branching out.”

“This is Templar business, Hawke,” Cullen snarled at them, but he was interrupted by an unexpected sound from Wilmod.

The young man had pushed himself to his feet, and he was… chuckling. His mirth rapidly grew into maniac laughter as he threw his head back and bellowed his merriment at the heavens.

“This isn’t going to end well,” Aveline muttered.

Suddenly Wilmod stopped. His head swung back down to glare at Cullen, and his eyes started glowing with a strange light. Cullen was dumbfounded, but Hawke already had her daggers in each hand as she deftly maneuvered herself so she was on the other side of Wilmod before either he or Cullen noticed. Aveline and Fenris quickly and deliberately flanked the young Templar as Isabela lurked just behind Aveline and her shield, intent on watching Wilmod’s every move.

“You have struck me for the last time, you pathetic human!” Wilmod roared in a guttural voice that was not his.

His muscles rippled, bulged, strained against the grotesque changes raking through his body. Everyone watched in horror as his skin tore and shredded like wet gauze, giving way to something dark and hulking with great disfigured arms and a twisted parody of a face that was no longer human. It emerged from his shoulders with a wet squelch, like an enormous insect tearing itself free from its old shell. Hawke swallowed hard, willing herself not to be sick.

“To me!” it snarled.

A burst of light made them all stumble back a step as three other misshapen figures suddenly materialized around what was once Wilmod.

“Maker preserve us.” Cullen prayed fervently as he raised his shield.

Hawke had a moment of sincerely regretting not bringing along Anders or Merrill. Magic would have been extremely useful at the moment. Even if there hadn’t been a Templar ten feet away, even if she were ready to reveal to her companions her darkest secret, her magic skills were child’s play compared to her more experienced companions. They would be worse than useless against… whatever these things were.

Hawke snaked in behind Wilmod while he was fixated on Cullen and struck him lightning-fast before darting out of range again. Wilmod turned and fixed his eye on her, an unnerving glowing orb that suddenly made her limbs feel heavy and drained. The creature lunged, and Hawke was slow to dodge. She felt a dull pain as one of its claws caught her as she tried to twist away, raking her across the shoulder.

“Here!” she heard Fenris shout. The creature that was once Wilmod turned its gaze towards the elf, who followed up his greeting with a string of Tevinter curses that were indecipherable to Hawke but nevertheless sounded suitably vile. As the monster lunged, it was met with a powerful sword stroke that nearly severed one of its arms from its body. Its gurgled shriek was punctuated by several more slashes to the same arm, dealt by a furious Hawke who had recovered her strength almost the moment the creature had taken its eyes off her. She was ready this time, and disappeared in a cloud of smoke as Wilmod’s claws caught only air. Enraged, the creature turned again to Fenris, who had smoothly swung his blade around and now struck his opponent’s distorted face with the pommel with tremendous force. The creature staggered back, and Hawke was suddenly at its flank, riddling it with a fury of blows that it was too confused to evade or defend against, culminating in an explosive strike right in the center of its left eye. It groaned and writhed and expired, the energy leaving its body, the body sinking to the ground and disseminating into dust, as quickly as it had emerged into existence.

Hawke was breathing hard, the adrenaline coursing through her body, her senses wound up to a fever pitch. She met Fenris’s eyes, keen with battle rage, his teeth bared in a snarl, his markings glowing faintly along the length of his hard, tense muscles, and for one crazy moment she thought he was going to grab her and take her on the spot, like two beasts in rut. Or was that purely her own insane desire burning in her belly, pulsing in her veins? It was only a heartbeat and then both of them turned, part of the battle once more.

Isabela and Aveline had trapped an abomination between them and were making short work of it, Aveline engaging its attention while Isabela danced around it and sliced it to ribbons. Cullen was holding his own against two more. They were so intent on him that it was no work at all for Fenris and Hawke to take them from behind, felling them before they were quite aware of what had happened.

There was a moment of silence as they all tried to catch their collective breath and assess the damage. Everyone was spattered with blood, but thankfully most of it seemed to be from their erstwhile opponents. Cullen had fared the best, ensconced as he was in the traditional Templar armor. _The big brave warriors, wrapped up in so much shining armor they can barely move. I’d rather take a few hits then try to fight wearing metal knickers._ Hawke grinned to herself as she examined her shoulder. The welling blood made her amend that thought to _maybe just a wee bit more armor might be nice._   Aveline flexed her shield arm with a slight grimace, and Isabela sported a few shallow scrapes on her forearm, but nothing too serious. Fenris looked as stoic as always. _He could be bleeding to death inside his armor and we’d never know._ She wondered if she’d just imagined that moment between them in the heat of battle.

“How about we bring the hobo healer next time?” Isabela hissed under her breath to Hawke, earning herself an elbow in the ribs.

“I knew it.” Cullen said through clenched teeth as he stared at the abominations strewn at their feet. “I knew something sinister was going on. But this…” he trailed off, swallowing before he could continue. “Is it even possible?”

“Was he an abomination?” Hawke wondered out loud, trying to rummage in her various pockets for a bandage of some sort.

“Hawke, you’re bleeding all over your shoes,” Aveline observed.

“Well, if I’d know we were going to be battling demons, I would have packed a few more things,” Hawke replied dryly. “Never mind, I’m not going to bleed to death. Well, Knight-Captain? What do you think happened to our darling Wilmod? Did he finally have enough of your, shall we say, somewhat rough affections?”

He looked at her, disapproval of her flippant attitude warring with bafflement at what had just happened. “I wasn’t going to hurt him. But…” he stopped himself and stared at Hawke with renewed wariness in his eyes.

She sighed, awkwardly positioning her arm while trying not to drip on her shoes. “We know your recruits have been disappearing, Knight-Captain Cullen. If you share what you know with us, we might be able to help you find out what’s going on.”

He kept staring at her. “Why should I trust you, Serah Hawke?”

Hawke forced herself to widen her eyes and look as guileless as she possibly could. She thought about batting her eyelashes but decided that would be overdoing it a bit. Instead she gave him her sweetest _I want nothing more than to help you_ smile. He colored a little and coughed, looking away.

“Keran’s sister asked us for a personal favor,” she said in her sunniest voice. “She’s been concerned about his whereabouts. We just want to find Keran and bring his sister some peace of mind, that’s all.”

Cullen seemed mollified by her explanation, which was all true, as far as it went. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “Just that some of our newer recruits have gone missing. At first we thought they were runaways. Templar training is rigorous and can be trying. Some recruits do break under the pressure.”

“So you haven’t been forcing your recruits to participate in some kind of… initiation ritual?” Aveline demanded skeptically.

“What? Maker’s breath, no.” Cullen seemed offended. “Some of the Templars just like to tease the recruits with exaggerated stories. The only ritual involved is a night-long devotion where we pledge our soul to the Maker. The greatest danger is that the recruits will fall asleep.”

“Was that a _joke_? From a _Templar_?” Isabela mimed shock. _She_ had no compunction about batting her eyelashes at the Knight-Captain, who seemed intent on looking anywhere but her generous cleavage. He cleared his throat unnecessarily. “Hmph. Yes. As I was saying, the rumors among the recruits would normally be harmless, but once some of them actually started disappearing, some of the rumors started gaining credit among the more credulous recruits. The Knight-Commander tasked me with investigating, but she ordered me to keep things quiet.” To his credit, he looked uncomfortably embarrassed at admitting the subterfuge. “As I said, we just thought it was a handful of them getting cold feet. Wilmod was the only one to return, but as soon as he showed up, I knew something was… off.”

“Only mages can be made into abominations,” Aveline said, but her voice was full of doubt.

Hawke had been staring at the carcasses of the fallen, thinking hard and trying to remember her father’s lessons about such creatures. “Wilmod’s body disintegrated once we killed him. Yet these are still here, and they were clearly abominations. So Wilmod must have turned into something different. Although what it was is still a mystery to me.”

“There is blood magic involved somehow, I’d wager.” Fenris spat with practiced disgust, the kind he reserved for anything to do with mages.

Hawke sighed inwardly and turned back to Cullen. “Well? Do you have any other leads?”

Cullen frowned. “We did have one lead. Apparently the missing recruits had all been frequenting the… The Blooming Rose in Hightown.” The Templar was actually _blushing._ Hawke could practically feel Isabela purring next to her, like a cat ready to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. She exchanged looks with Aveline, who read her mind perfectly and gave Isabela a menacing look as she mouthed _whore_ while Cullen wasn’t looking. Isabela bared her teeth and almost hissed back, but at least her attention had been diverted. “The… the ladies there were reluctant to speak with me,” Cullen continued, shifting uncomfortably. Hawke wondered if the strapping Templar was going to clutch his pearls and swoon if he had to talk about brothels and prostitutes for much longer.

The Knight-Captain finally seemed to notice Hawke’s wound. “You’re bleeding quite a bit.”

“Are all Templars trained in such skilled powers of observation?” Hawke couldn’t help laughing, though it was probably foolish of her to bait a Templar so openly. They weren’t known for having a great sense of humor. But Cullen merely fished a strip of cloth out of a pocket somewhere and held it out like a peace offering.

“Standard Templar issue for when we run out of potions,” he explained. “I can bandage that if you like. Your shoes may still be salvageable.”

Hawke laughed again and took the cloth. She felt herself warming towards this unexpectedly awkward Templar, although his way of handling the Wilmod situation showed that clearly he had anger issues, to put it mildly. _He would spit on you if he knew what you were,_ a voice inside of her whispered. She made an effort to keep the smile plastered to her face.

“I can manage, but thank you for the bandage. My shoes thank you as well,” she added, managing to earn herself a brief grin.

He soon left after she promised to keep him updated if they managed to get any more information out of the “young ladies” at The Blooming Rose. Hawke’s mind was busy with what their next step should be, and she was startled by Fenris reaching over and taking the bandage out of her hand. She stared up at him quizzically, but he just took one end of the strip of cloth and held it firmly against her wound, then methodically began wrapping it around her arm.

“Thanks,” she told him, somewhat uncertainly. One hand was wrapped around her upper arm, the other winding the cloth. He was close enough that she could smell him – the smoky bite of his armor, the tang of his sweat, the comforting familiarity that was just _him._ She felt that tingle of electricity that always seemed to spark in the space between them whenever he was close. The back of his hand brushed against her breasts, and she prayed to the Maker that she wasn’t blushing.

He snorted by way of reply. “It was foolish of you to attack first, Hawke. You should have waited until the creature’s attention was on me before you struck.”

Hawke almost burst out into hysterical laughter but managed to choke it back. Here she was fantasizing about Fenris groping her breasts while Fenris’s main concern seemed to be that she had been – surprise! – a silly bint in the midst of battle.

“He’s right,” Aveline chimed in. “Even Isabela had the sense to hide behind me at the start.”

“I wasn’t _hiding,_ I was _stealthing_.” Isabela retorted indignantly.

Hawke winced as Fenris tugged the bandage tighter. “Fine, I am the biggest fool the Maker has ever been unfortunate enough to breathe life into. Can we please move on? I’m not going blundering into The Blooming Rose without a better idea of what we’re dealing with. Not after this little surprise party.”

“So what’s the plan? Are you going to go around the marketplace asking for a demon expert?” Isabela said sarcastically.

“Don’t be stupid,” Aveline said contemptuously. “We are personally acquainted with two demon experts. What is the point of keeping them around if can’t occasionally be useful?”

Fenris grunted his disapproval as he tied off Hawke’s bandage but refrained from commenting any further. Hawke felt a bit regretful that he was done so quickly. _Damn his efficiency._ “Fenris is probably right that blood magic is involved, somehow.” She shuddered at the memory of Wilmod shedding his human skin. “Hopefully Anders and Merrill have some ideas.”

“Merrill will probably suggest summoning a demon on the spot and asking it some questions over tea,” Isabela remarked.

Hawke made a face. “We’ve had enough demon company for today, thank you very much.”

***

After a brief discussion, it was decided that Isabela would go see Merrill while Hawke paid Anders a visit in Darktown. Hawke wasn’t entirely certain she trusted Isabela to get accurate information out of Merrill and, more importantly, retain it, but she felt that demons bursting out of Templars warranted a bit of urgency on their part, and this arrangement would save them precious time. Aveline suggested her presence would make it difficult to get honest answers in The Blooming Rose and offered to check in with them the following day.

Hawke had told Fenris he didn’t have to accompany her to Ander’s clinic – to say Fenris disliked the mage would be a laughable understatement – but he had merely shrugged and said he would wait outside if she thought he would make the mage nervous. His actual words were _if you feel I will make your pet abomination uncomfortable, I will keep my distance, as long as he behaves himself_. She supposed that was the best she could hope for. And her wound pained her more than she cared to let on – his quiet presence was a comfort as they walked to streets of Darktown.

“Do you still say mages deserve freedom after witnessing what we did today?” he asked her at some point on their way through Kirkwall.

Hawke sighed. _So much for quiet presence._ “What can I say, Fenris? Some mages are out of their bloody minds. Some are evil. Some are insane _and_ evil. You could say the same about everyone, mage or no.”

“A normal person does not have the power to kill others with a thought.” Fenris persisted.

Hawke shot him a look. “What about you, Fenris?”

“Me?” he said, looking at her warily. “What about me?”

“You are a dangerous man, Fenris. Your lyrium tattoos grant you powers that make you into a living weapon. So should _you_ be locked up lest you decide to wreak wanton violence on the innocent?”

She didn’t need to see the flash in his eyes to know she was treading on dangerous ground. She should have just answered his question with something neutral and non-committal, but Fenris’s blind insistence on seeing all mages as latent terrorists was really wearing on her nerves. Her growing attraction to him made his opinions even more difficult to stomach for some reason, even though she knew that pursuing this topic with him was putting herself in a potentially vulnerable position.

“I didn’t ask for these.” Fenris’s words were little more than a growl deep in his throat.

“And mages don’t ask for their magic either.” Hawke tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“It isn’t the same.” Fenris disagreed. “Mages can control people against their will, can bend reality to do their bidding. Such power will always tempt them to corruption. It is inevitable.”

“I’ve yet to hear of a justice system that punishes people for crimes they _might_ commit,” Hawke observed tartly. “Not in Thedas, anyway.”

“How can you be so blithe about the dangers posed by magic?” Fenris demanded, obviously frustrated by her answers. “You have seen the destruction they can wreak, more than most.”

“I’m not saying mages should be left to frolic about Thedas like bunnies in a meadow,” Hawke said with exaggerated patience. “But the system, as it is, is broken. Kirkwall has so many crazy mages because it preemptively has decided all its mages are crazy. Surely you of all people understand how easy it is to be molded, by the will of those around you, into something you do not want to be.”

Fenris grunted but did not deign to reply, and they walked for a good while in silence. Hawke thought he had dropped the subject entirely and her mind had begun to wander when he spoke again.

“You are too determined to assume the best about people, Hawke.”

“What?” She stared at him, mentally fumbling for the thread of their lapsed conversation.

“You give these power-mad mages the benefit of the doubt, that they are good people pushed into evil deeds by their dire circumstances. You have not seen the magisters – mages who have no reason to fear anyone, yet all they do is use their magic to bend others to their will, to silence anyone who dares speak against them.” He was speaking to her, but his eyes were fixed on something unseen in the distance. She stared at his profile, the sharp angles of his face, the grim twist of his mouth as he spoke about a past she knew he did not enjoy revisiting. “Your sympathy for your fellow humans does you credit, but they do not deserve your kindness.”

Hawke pressed her lips together and swallowed the urge to scream in frustration. _Marian Hawke. Why do you even try? You know he will never change his mind. And Maker knows if anyone is entitled to hating mages, it’s him. What right do I have to challenge the trauma he’s suffered at the hands of those bastard Tevinter magisters?_ The thought that there would eternally be this yawning chasm of misunderstanding between them hurt her like a physical twinge beneath her ribs. _Silly bint. You’ve only known the man a few months, don’t be so bloody melodramatic._

She was startled out of her thoughts by Fenris’s hand on her arm, causing her to stop in the middle of the street. The bustle of people swarmed around them indifferently, like water flowing past a rock in a stream. “Does it hurt?”

“Hurt?” Hawke repeated stupidly, confused.

“Your arm.” He was looking down at her, and she thought she saw concern softening the normally hard lines of his stoic mask. “You looked as if you were in pain.”

She blinked, suddenly feeling a burning sensation in the back of her throat, and quickly turned away lest her emotions betray her. His vengeful anger she could handle; it was his sudden concern for her that she felt she couldn’t bear.

“I’m fine!” she laughed, though it sounded false and brittle to her own ears. “It was only a scratch. And Anders can heal it for me easily enough.”

Fenris grunted disapprovingly as they resumed their pace. “You’d do better to go see your sister.”

Hawke laughed a more genuine laugh this time. “I know you think Anders is dangerous, but I’d rather face a possessed mage than an angry sister. She’ll be rather unhappy when she learns I left her behind on our little adventure today.”

“Next time I will make sure to save a demon for her.” Fenris offered.

Hawke grinned at him, relieved that their conversation was back on safe ground. “The true key to any woman’s heart.”

***

They soon reached the dingy hovel that Anders called his clinic in the dark, damp bowels of Darktown. Hawke opened her mouth to remind Fenris about his promise to wait outside and not cause trouble, but all that was rendered unnecessary as soon as they opened the door to find Anders was entertaining a visitor.

“Bethany?” Hawke exclaimed.

The younger Hawke instantly sprang to her feet. Anders stood up more slowly, looking mildly confused. He was holding a tattered book in his hands. By the looks of things the two of them had been reading it together, sitting cozily on a small, rickety bench pushed up against the far wall.

“Marian, Fenris! Hello.” Bethany smiled nervously, busily brushing her hair out of her eyes and smoothening her clothes. Hawke was reminded strongly of when they had been younger and their mother had caught them trying to sneak into the house after they had run off to sample a jug of ale behind the shed. “Fancy running into you here.”

“Yes, fancy that!” Hawke replied brightly, hands on her hips and eyes wide with exaggerated cheer. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything.”

“We were just discussing some finer points from some recent academic essays that have been circulating among the mages in Kirkwall,” Anders explained. While Bethany was definitely not pleased by the surprise visit, Anders seemed happy to see them. To see Hawke, anyway; he had barely looked in Fenris’s direction. “You’re welcome to join us if you like.”

“You’re bleeding!” Bethany suddenly blurted out. The blood had soaked through the bandage on their walk to Darktown, and dark red droplets were gently dropping onto the straw covering the floor. Hawke winced as her sister clutched her arm.

“Sit down, Hawke,” Anders said sternly, pointing to a stool. She perched on it gingerly, unwilling to trust her full weight to its questionable integrity. Everything in Anders’s clinic always seemed in imminent danger of collapsing.

“Where were you today?” Bethany demanded as Anders began to unwrap the bandage. Out of the corner of her eye, Hawke saw Fenris retreat a few steps until he was standing next to the doorway. He leaned one shoulder against the frame and crossed his arms, giving the impression he was just casually lounging around. Catching Hawke’s eye, he gave a subtle shrug, as if to say _I told you I would keep my distance, so that’s what I’m doing._ Hawke hid a smile; she would have bet her best dagger that Fenris was ready to draw his sword in half a heartbeat the second Anders twitched the wrong way.

 “This hasn’t been cleaned or seen to in any way at all.” Anders observed disapprovingly.

“Well, I figured if I reached you before my arm fell off, it would end up all right,” Hawke said, cheerfully unrepentant.

There was a brief glow as Anders cupped his hands around her wound. Hawke grimaced as her skin knit itself together, the gash fading and disappearing in a matter of seconds. “I just needed a poultice,” she protested. “You should save your magic for more important things.”

“I have enough magic to spare for ensuring a friend’s arm doesn’t fall off,” Anders replied laughingly. shaking his head.

“You haven’t answered my question, Marian.” Bethany was not to be sidetracked, her usually sunny face furrowed with suspicion.

Hawke sighed and launched into a brief explanation of what had happened on the road to Sundermount just a few hours earlier. Bethany looked predictably upset when it became clear Hawke had left her out of this because of the Templar link, but thankfully she didn’t make a scene. Hawke was sure that was coming later. Anders listened intently and cursed out loud when Hawke described Wilmod turning into a monster and summoning abominations to aid him in battle.

“That sounds like he turned into a shade.” His brow was dark with disapproval, and Hawke thought she saw a glimmer of blue in his eyes. She didn’t need to turn her head to know that Fenris was tensing, ready to spring at the slightest hint of trouble. _Maker, the last thing I need is a warrior/mage duel in the middle of Lowtown. Varric would probably think it was great material for his book._

“How is that different from an abomination?” Hawke asked.

“Abominations are when demons possess mages through the Fade. Shades are when demons physically cross the Veil into our world. They don’t need to possess anyone… and I don’t think your Templar was ‘possessed’ in the traditional sense.” Anders frowned. “It must be blood magic of some kind. Maybe a blood mage called the demon into our world and somehow planted it inside the Templar against his will. I’ve never heard of such a thing, but I suppose it’s theoretically possible.”

“Maybe Merrill will know more about it.”

Anders made a disgusted noise. “I wouldn’t give her any ideas.”

Hawke rolled her eyes but let the comment pass. “Well, the recruits apparently were all regulars at The Blooming Rose. Is it possible a blood mage could be hiding among the ladies there?”

Anders shrugged. “Possible, I suppose. You don’t think it’s just a coincidence that they were all at The Blooming Rose?”

Hawke tapped a finger on her lips reflectively. “It would be difficult to overcome a Templar, even a recruit, if they were on their guard. Ambushing them at a brothel would be an excellent way to catch them at their most vulnerable. Maybe the blood mage doesn’t work there, but they must at least have a co-conspirator on the inside.”

“Well, if you’re planning on going to The Blooming Rose to investigate, I’m going with you.” Anders said, crossing his arms with a frown. “If there is a blood mage lurking about, you’ll need a mage to help you deal with them.”

Hawke considered the idea with a frown. “It doesn’t seem like a good idea for you to be prancing around in Hightown,” she said at length. “You’re a fugitive apostate, remember?”

Anders snorted. “I will prance discreetly then. Besides, any Templars in The Blooming Rose won’t be eager to call attention to themselves. Don’t try to change my mind,” he added as Hawke opened her mouth. “You would be stupid to confront a blood mage with no mage as back up. I know you’re not stupid, Hawke.”

Hawke couldn't help but laugh at his persistence. “Fine, Anders, but I’m going to have Fenris keep an eagle eye on your gait, and one sign of indiscreet prancing means you’re prancing your merry back down here.”

“Well, don’t think you’re leaving me behind again, sister,” Bethany interrupted. “You go on one adventure without me and you get your arm nearly cut off.”

Hawke sighed, resigned to the inevitable. “I wish I could say there are no more demon summoning picnics in our future, but I doubt that’s true.”

***

Unlike the last time they had visited, The Blooming Rose was humming with activity. The porch of the brothel was bathed in a warm glow from clusters of red paper lanterns, hanging like overripe fruit from the decorative arches. A few courtesans were perched on the railings, but unlike the whores in Lowtown they did not call out vulgar invitations to passers-by or bare their breasts for all to see. Some of them were amiably chatting with their guests; a few of them merely sat, leisurely sipping a drink or smoking a pipe, watching people walk by with seemingly idle curiosity. It was all deceptively civilized.

Isabela was waiting for them near the front entrance, and Fenris was pleased to see that the Dalish witch was not with her. They already had two mages with them, which was two too many in his opinion. “Finally!” she greeted them with impatience. “I was just about to go in by myself.” She flashed Hawke her wickedest grin. “Strictly for reconnaissance purposes, of course.”

“I’m sure you would have been very thorough,” Hawke replied dryly.

Isabela laughed. “Indeed. Oh, before I forget.” She rummaged around and produced a wrinkled scrap of parchment, squinting at it theatrically. “Merrill made some notes. _Blood magic: likely. Demon involved: very likely. Work of just one mage: highly unlikely._ ”

“That’s… succinct.” Hawke raised an eyebrow. “It’s nice to have confirmation, I suppose.”

Isabela blinked as she belatedly noted Anders and Bethany. “Well, this is a surprise. Aren’t we going to look slightly odd, going in five at a time? Not that the Madame hasn’t seen stranger, I suppose.”

Hawke seemed to be mulling things over. Fenris noticed she was careful not to look at Bethany, focusing on Isabela instead. “I would feel safer if some of us were to stay out here and keep a look out for potential trouble. If we are looking for a blood mage, it’s very unlikely they’re working alone.”

Hawke had a rather intent expression on her face as she spoke to Isabela, and Fenris wondered if the erstwhile pirate would realize that she was trying to convey a message other than her spoken words. Isabela and subtle were not two words he would normally associate with each other.

Isabela abruptly grinned and threw an arm around Bethany. “Bethy will keep watch with me, won’t you? We can lurk on the porch and make inappropriate propositions to anyone unfortunate enough to approach us.”

“I said keep a look out for potential trouble, not give Aveline an excuse to arrest you. You know she would do it too, with great pleasure.”

Bethany seemed doubtful at first, but the allure of causing mischief with Isabela seemed to win out over her desire to stick with her older sister. “We’ll be on our best behavior,” she promised Hawke with her most sincere smile. Fenris was sure she meant it too, though the glint in Isabela’s eye did not bode well for her intentions. Still, he was surprised that Isabela had so quickly realized what Hawke was about. With her sister safely out of the way, Hawke seemed much more relaxed as she led Fenris and Anders through the front doors of The Blooming Rose.

Inside was busy enough. Patrons lounged in velvet armchairs, some there in small groups, others there alone, watching the courtesans walk past with varying degrees of interest. It was still early hours yet, and the chaos was muted, though Fenris could spot a few guests who were already well on their way to eventually getting hurled out onto the streets by the Rose’s unsympathetic bouncers. Madame Lusine, the lady they had spoken to on their previous visit, was nowhere to be seen, but there was a plain-faced, sensibly dressed brown-haired woman standing near the bar with a no-nonsense air about her who seemed to be in charge.

Anders was unabashedly eavesdropping on one lady berating another over her “demon crotchspawn,” as she so delicately phrased it. “Please stop gawking, Anders,” Hawke murmured under her breath. “Have you never been in a brothel before?”

“I’m sorry if my lack of frequenting dens of debauchery offends you.” Anders replied in an exaggerated whisper. Hawke shot him a half-amused, half-impatient look as she approached the brown-haired woman, a smile on her face. Fenris was getting to be an expert at reading Hawke’s different smiles – this one was her ‘I am a helpful citizen with good intentions’ smile, which she always summoned up with great sincerity upon approaching strangers. It always made her look more like her sister. She pulled it off admirably; fairly radiating good will, her eyes crinkled into amber half-moons, her smile revealing an unexpected dimple in the left corner of her mouth.

The woman’s stern expression seemed unaffected by Hawke’s approach, though Fenris detected a slight softening around her eyes. “My name is Viveka. Welcome to The Blooming Rose. What can I do for you, honey?”

Hawke provided an abbreviated explanation of the errand that brought them to the brothel. The woman was understandably reluctant to divulge information about their patrons, but when Hawke hinted at the possibility of the establishment coming under more scrutiny from the Templars if they were unable to locate the missing recruits, she eventually relented, turning to a thick ledger on the table behind her and flipping through it with a practiced hand. “I know the two boys you’re looking for,” she noted condescendingly. “They were regulars with one of our girls: Idunna, the Exotic Wonder from the East.”

Anders snickered. “That’s quite the stage name.”

“Sounds better than the Tramp of Lowtown,” Viveka shrugged, unamused. She gestured vaguely behind her. “You’ll find her in her room.”

“Thank you,” Hawke said sincerely, but Viveka had already dismissed them from her mind and her attention was elsewhere. The three of them made their way down the hallway, scooting past courtesans and patrons in various states of inebriated engagement.

“So is this the femme fatale that somehow sent these nice Templar boys to their doom?” Anders muttered as they stopped in front of a room.

Fenris merely flexed his hands and looked to Hawke. The smile was gone; her mouth was set in a line and her eyes were calm and alert. “She might be an unwitting pawn, and she might not,” she said. “Be ready.”

Idunna, the Exotic Wonder from the East, was a curvy woman with brassy red-brown hair and ice blue eyes that seemed to harden suspiciously as they walked in. Fenris must have imagined it, because when he looked again her eyes had turned into two sparkling moonstones, breathtaking in their blinding brilliance. He blinked, surprised by his own thought. Next to him, Hawke seemed unconcerned as she stepped closer to the lovely courtesan. Anders also seemed indifferent as he lingered at Hawke’s elbow, arms crossed across his chest. Was he the only one perceptive enough to realize how beautiful this woman was? Her skin was the color of the most delicate pink roses blooming under a summer moon…

“Hello, Idunna.” Hawke was cordial but cool, which Fenris felt was unfair – they had only just met this woman, she had done nothing to merit such suspicion. He found himself unable to tear his eyes away from this gorgeous creature, only vague aware that Hawke was questioning her about the missing Templars. Idunna was shaking her head, denying knowledge of either man with a confused yet charming smile on her face. Her breasts were like two perfectly round melons, straining against the thin purple fabric of her bodice, begging to be devoured…

Fenris shook his head and grimaced in disgust at himself. Where in the Maker’s name had that thought come from?

Hawke sighed. “Do your clients enjoy this charade? It must get dreadfully tiresome.”

He looked at her in surprise. Why was she being so unnecessarily antagonistic? Idunna fluttered her eyelashes in understandable confusion towards Hawke. “Whatever do you mean?” She turned and sat down on her bed, leaning back to look up at Hawke in a way that emphasized the lines of her delicate neck, the way her sheer silk gown clung to her sinuous curves. “Questions are boring,” she pouted, tracing slow circles on the blanket. “Let’s have some real fun.”

Hawke’s impatience was clear on her face. Fenris was worried she might do something rash. “She may not know anything,” he blurted out, hoping to divert her ire.

“You should listen to your friend.” Idunna turned her smile on Fenris, and her approval was like a shaft of warm sunshine on his face, filling him with gratitude.

Hawke turned to look at him, surprised. “We need to ask her questions nonetheless. What is wrong with you?”

It was only when he met her gaze that he suddenly became aware of the strangeness of his thoughts. Although what was strange about them? Trying to pinpoint the oddity was like trying to focus on something just on the edges of his peripheral vision. Something was clearly lingering, but whenever he tried to look at it directly, it vanished. Hawke’s familiar eyes were like two steady points of warm light shining through a heavy fog. He tried to center himself.

“I’m… not sure,” was all he could tell her, still vaguely confused. “Be careful,” he found himself adding under his breath.

It was an odd thing to say – there were three of them in this room with one helpless woman – yet Hawke seemed to take his warning seriously as she turned back to Idunna.

“You are as charming as you are relentless,” she said with a grin that stopped short of genuine amusement. “But I really need some answers, and I’m sure you’d rather get us out of your hair so you can spend your evening in less boring company.”

Idunna tilted her head and seemed to consider what Hawke had said. “Answer me one question first.” She looked directly at Hawke, and Fenris suddenly felt a chill run down his spine, though nothing discernible about her expression had changed. “Who told you about little old me?”

Hawke opened her mouth – and then her face froze, her eyes widening. She seemed to be struggling with her words in a way that was not like her at all. “It… was Viveka!” she gasped in a strangled voice. “She… showed us… her ledger.”

Fenris stared at her in shock. Hawke seemed unable to take her eyes off Idunna. A muscle in her check twitched as if she were straining to speak but someone was holding her jaw shut. _Draw your sword_ , Fenris told himself, but his hands stayed at his sides. He shot a look at Anders, who was blinking rapidly like a man trying to fight off sleep. The fog that had been creeping at the edges of Fenris’s vision was stealing in closer, threatening to envelop everything.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Idunna purred, standing up and walking closer to Hawke. “So it was Viveka.” She spoke as if to herself, her lips bared in a snarl. “That pathetic little sewer rat. I’ll deal with her later.” Idunna’s face contorted with rage, and Fenris felt the fog shit and recede a hairsbreadth. Hawke was still frozen, staring at the courtesan fixedly.

“Just do one more thing for me.” Idunna leaned in, her soft lips almost touching Hawke’s cheek. Her voice dropped into a sensuous whisper. “Take out your dagger…” The courtesan gently drew her hand over her own neck. “…and cut your throat like a good girl.”

 _No!_ Fenris felt alarm streak through his clouded thoughts, but his limbs still refused to cooperate. It was like watching the world through a frosted window pane. Hawke slowly drew her dagger, her eyes half-closed but her hand shaking as if it belonged to someone else entirely. Out of the corner of his eye Fenris could see Anders staring at Idunna, eyes wide as if he was forcing his entire will into keeping them open, a strangled sound escaping his throat as he struggled to summon his magic. Hawke’s dagger touched her neck, drew the beginnings of one thin scarlet line. Her eyes flew open and she drew a deep breath.

“Fuck… _OFF!_ ”

She flung her hand away from her, the dagger flying wild and falling onto the carpet with a soft thud. A trickle of blood stained one side of her neck. Her cheeks were stained red and she was panting as if she had just fought a pitched battle and barely won. At the same time Fenris felt his mind abruptly clear, like he’d just been hit with a blast of icy cold wind. He gasped from the shock, his pulse quickening with a surge of emotions; shame at his weakness, fear at the violation, rage at the perpetrator standing before them, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“Oh, _shit_!” she moaned

Anders was standing still, one arm partially outstretched towards Hawke. He was staring at her, and if anything his disbelief seemed even greater than Idunna’s. Was he still processing the fact that Hawke had nearly slit her own throat right in front of them? Fenris reached behind him and wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword, trying not to vomit as he recalled all the strange, unfamiliar thoughts that had filled his consciousness against his will.

Idunna clasped her hands together, opening her mouth presumably to beg for mercy. In the blink of an eye, Hawke had whipped out her other dagger and shoved it neatly between the woman’s ribs.

Idunna’s plea was reduced to a gasp, then a gurgle of blood. She fell to her knees, then on her side. Her empty blue eyes stared at nothing. Without the glamor of her magic she looked plainer, insignificant. Hawke stared down at her, jaw clenched, eyes wide and burning with fury. Fenris felt no sadness for the dead whore, but he’d never seen Hawke kill someone so deliberately, in cold blood. He’d been sure she would allow the woman the chance to throw herself on the mercy of the Templars.

“Hawke…” Anders croaked, his voice hoarse. “How… how did you… do that?”

Hawke looked at Anders, and her face, normally an open book to Fenris, was perfectly blank. Only her eyes showed any kind of emotion, burning with dark golden fire, but he couldn’t tell if she was angry or terrified. “You’ve seen me stab people in the heart before, Anders.”

Anders seemed taken aback by her answer. Fenris decided if he pressed this line of questions he was going to bash him over the head with his pommel – Hawke’s actions were most certainly out of character, but the last thing she needed now was an idiot making her doubt herself. Anders glanced at him, and Fenris stared back grimly. There were no more questions.

The room was silent for a few more heartbeats. No one seemed to know what to say next. Then Anders drew in a breath. “Do you think she might have been a blood mage?”

Fenris grunted at his poor attempt at levity, but was secretly relieved to see Hawke blink and step back, the blank look of rage draining from her face. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with a grimace. Anders was watching her closely, but when he caught Fenris’s eye again he shrugged and looked away, wincing as he stretched his neck with a groan. “I’ve the mother of all hangovers.”

“She would have made a powerful magister.” Fenris prodded the dead women with the toe of his boot, ignoring the dull pain that had started to throb behind his eyes. “But the burial shroud will suit her better, I think.”

Hawke sighed, and when she spoke her tone was almost back to normal. “Madame Lusine is going to have an absolute shitfit when she sees this.”

***

The rest of the night was a blur. Once Hawke had snapped out of her shock and her rage, she’d realized she would have to move quickly before things got out of hand. Anders and Bethany were ordered to leave, with Isabela as an escort. Thankfully Bethany didn’t argue. Anders was still giving her funny looks, and she knew why – _Maker’s balls on a flaming stick_ – but she would have to deal with that later. Fenris helped her rummage through Idunna’s belongings until they found a letter from someone named Tarohne that made it clear someone with blood magic was targeting Templars specifically. It still wasn’t clear why, or if these two women had been part of some larger organization.

Hawke had sent word to Cullen, asking him to come to The Blooming Rose immediately, and to his credit, he showed up alone and in normal clothes that didn’t scream TEMPLAR from the rooftops. Hawke gave him a terse explanation of what had transpired in Idunna’s room and the information they had found.

“Blood magic.” Cullen swallowed, looking at the dead woman’s body. “I shouldn’t be surprised. So you know where the rest of them are? And where they are holding the other recruits?”

“We have a lead.” Hawke crossed her arms. “But you need to leave it to us to follow up on it.”

Cullen frowned. “This is Templar business, Hawke. I’m grateful for what you’ve done, but…”

“If you take a troop of shiny Templars charging into Darktown, you might as well send a few heralds ahead of you to trumpet your arrival while you’re at it. The blood mages will be long gone before you get anywhere near them.” It was difficult to glare at someone you had to look up at, but Hawke wasn’t going to let this blundering blond Templar cock things up at the eleventh hour. “And if any of your precious recruits are alive, they’ll most likely have their throats slit. I doubt that’s the ending you want.”

The Knight-Captain stared down at her, clearly irritated, but thank the Maker he was at least smart enough to see the sense of what she was saying. “What are you proposing then?”

“My friends and I will investigate on our own. We can sneak in before they know what’s happened, but only if you are able to keep the death of this blood mage whore from becoming common gossip for at least a day.”

Cullen sighed. “I don’t have much choice, I suppose. I can give you your day, if you promise that I will be the first to know what you discover in Darktown.”

“Done.” Hawke nodded, already halfway out the door. Fenris was one step behind her as they quickly left the brothel, dodging weary courtesans and bleary-eyed patrons finishing up their night. Outside, the sky was just starting to lighten, the stars growing paler as the sun inched towards the horizon.

“Hawke.” Fenris caught her by the elbow mid-stride. “You cannot be thinking to go looking for the blood mages right this instant.”

Hawke turned and looked at him, and for the first time that night she was aware of how long of a day – and night – it had been. She could feel the weariness all the way down to her toes. And she hadn’t yet let herself begin to deal with the fact that she’d had to resort to using her magic to save herself from cutting her own throat. She could only be grateful that Fenris had been too distracted by the glamor to realize what had happened. Anders, on the other hand, had clearly noticed. Thank the Maker he’d had the sense to keep his mouth shut in front of Fenris. _It’s just Anders, he’s just one person, and he’d never betray a mage._ But she still couldn’t shake off the feeling that this was just the beginning of her life starting to spiral into uncontrollable chaos. _Don’t be such a melodramatic bint, Marian Hawke! You don’t have time for this!_

“Hawke?”

She blinked, realizing she’d been staring at Fenris blankly as her thoughts had tangled themselves into a panicked snarl. “Fenris. I’m sorry, I must be more tired than I’d realized.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said harshly, his brows knit together in disapproval. Hawke felt his fingers on her skin, barely touching the scratch she’d inflicted on herself. She held her breath, afraid to meet his gaze.

“That bitch almost killed you.” His hand came to rest on the back of her neck, his thumb caressing her jawline. She finally looked up at him, her breath still caught in her throat. The gentleness of his touch was at odds with the immense anger kindling in his deep green eyes. “I never would have forgiven myself.”

“We were all caught in her spell,” Hawke tried for reason, hoping to calm his rage. It was hard to think, with him so close. “And… and if it hadn’t been for Anders, we would probably all be dead by now.”

She bit her lip, praying that her lie would be the explanation that made the most sense to him. He didn’t even blink, although his eyes narrowed in displeasure. Hawke wondered if Fenris would have rather chosen death at the hands of a blood mage over being in debt to Anders, a demonic abomination. It was probably a toss-up in his mind.

“I thought the days of feeling helpless were behind me.” Fenris said in a barely audible voice, dropping his gaze, and Hawke felt her heart ache for him. Impulsively she reached up to cup her hand around his cheek.

“We are alive, and the bitch is dead,” she whispered fiercely. “And now we’re going to go find her companions and make them rue the day they ever set foot in Kirkwall.”

Fenris’s grip around her neck tightened, and he lowered his head to kiss her. She was half-expecting it this time and knew she should have pulled away, but instead she closed her eyes and stood up on her tiptoes to meet him, finding blind comfort in the now-familiar taste of his mouth. His tongue moved against lips, rough and demanding, and she eagerly yielded, losing herself in the sensation of how the feel of his mouth on hers never failed to kindle the waiting spark of desire in her belly.

Seconds or hours had passed when Hawke felt him gently pull away, and she opened her eyes to see him still close enough to feel his breath on her lips. His eyes were burning, but no longer with rage. “I apologize. This is perhaps not the best time.”

Hawke had to laugh. “Yes, the anticipation of disemboweling blood mages isn’t terribly seductive, is it?”

“You may speak for yourself.” Fenris gave her a wry smile as he took a step back, his hands dropping to his sides. “Well, then. What now?”

Hawke sighed, knowing they had to focus on the task at hand but feeling her body throb with the aftermath of unanswered desire. She rubbed her eyes with the back of one hand. “I hate to say this, but we probably need some sleep. The way we are now, we’d end up accidentally stabbing each other instead of the blood mages.”

***

In the end, they caught a couple hours of rest curled up in Varric’s armchairs at The Hanged Man before heading off to Darktown. With them were Merrill and Bethany. Hawke had reasoned that when it came to blood mages, it was best to fight fire with fire. As for Bethany, she’d told Hawke she refused to let her sister face another blood mage without her, and Hawke had relented. Fighting with Bethany at her side was always a double-edged sword – there was no one she trusted more to watch her back, but she also felt like she was always fighting with half her attention on her sister rather than focusing completely on the battle at hand. But the clock was ticking if they were to have any hope of finding any of the Templar recruits alive, and Hawke didn’t want to waste any more time on arguing.

The blood mages’ lair was a warren of dark twisty passages even further underground than Darktown itself. The tunnels were – unsurprisingly – teeming with demons and the undead, but they were easily enough dealt with. Bethany blasted waves of icy energy that froze many of the creatures where they stood, while Merrill summoned crackling bolts of lightning that jumped from demon to demon, leaving the acrid smell of burning in their wake. Fenris was often able to destroy their frozen enemies with a well-placed blow, shattering them into countless shards, while Hawke would wait for him to knock another enemy off their guard before snaking in and incapacitating them while they staggered under his relentless blows. All around them the earth glowed eerily green, smoky tendrils curling up and snaking around the limbs of their enemies – courtesy of Merrill. Hawke knew Fenris didn’t approve, but at the moment she found she didn’t care – she wanted to get this job done as quickly as possible, with no casualties on their part. If that meant unleashing their resident blood mage to wreak havoc on some demons, then so be it. And despite the animosity that existed between him and the mages, their skills complemented each other with deadly efficacy.

Turning the umpteenth corner, Hawke skidded to a halt and gaped at what she saw. It was a column of light, stretching from floor to ceiling, with a man curled up in the middle, seemingly floating in mid air. His eyes were closed and his skin was sickly pale. He seemed oblivious to where he was or what was happening. Hawke wasn’t even entirely certain he was breathing.

“Andraste’s mercy,” Bethany breathed. “What _is_ that?”

Merrill seemed fascinated. “He’s alive!” she announced, staring up at the column. “But how?”

“Ware,” Fenris warned, and they all tensed and looked up to see a handful of mages approaching. There was a woman leading them, dressed in elaborate yet grimy robes, her dark eyes looking at them greedily like a child coveting sweets.

“More vessels for our experiments!” she said gleefully.

 _Great, another insane blood mage. What are the odds?_ Hawke glanced back up at the man in the column of light. “What have you done to him?”

The woman – presumably Tarohne – shrugged. “He was found unfit to be a vessel. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be useful. Waste not, want not, don’t you know.” Her glittering eyes took in Merrill and Bethany. “Sisters. Why do you stand next to those so utterly inferior to us? Why do you allow Templars to tell you what to do when they could never dream of doing a tenth of what we can?”

“You’re insane.” Merrill sounded matter-of-fact, as if she were observing the weather. Bethany nodded vigorously.

“Did you know that demons can possess much more than just mages or dead people?” Tarohne spoke as if she hadn’t heard Merrill. “Can you imagine what the Knight Commander will do when she realizes that her precious Templars are just as vulnerable as the mages they try to oppress?”

“Well, I have to give you credit for creativity.” Hawke made an effort to sound light-hearted as she eyed the three mages creeping around in the background. She could sense Fenris’s tension, a predator with every muscle coiled, ready to strike.

“The Tevinter Imperium once spanned the known world!” the woman raved, waving her staff for emphasis. “And it will again. This we have sworn!”

 _Shit, she said the magic word._ Hawke had a hearbeat to prepare herself before Fenris attacked while Tarohne was still mid-cackle. The mages barely had time to gape as he swung his sword in a wide arc. He had sacrificed precision in the hopes of inflicting maximum damage, but he had the element of surprise on his side. The edge of his sword sliced through flesh like butter, catching all three of Tarohne’s companions off-guard. They stumbled backwards, screaming, red blossoming on the robes. He had barely completed his swing when a blinding bolt of electricity struck the mage in the center and leapt to the others in the blink of an eye. Already staggered by Fenris’s attack, Merrill’s lightning magic knocked them off their feet. The battle was on.

Despite Tarohne’s grand claims, the skirmish was sharp but short. Fenris’s initial attack had tilted the balance in their favor. Two of the mages had managed to summon a few lesser demons, but Fenris took the brunt of their attacks while Bethany and Merrill made short work of them with a few well-placed spells. Hawke dodged the bolts from the mages’ staves as best she could and used the general chaos as a cover to wait until they were focused elsewhere, then struck quickly from the shadows to slit one throat. The other one flinched as the blood of his companion spattered across his face, and Hawke took advantage, stabbing him decisively in the kidney. Tarohne spent most of the battle cowering behind a barrier, but it turned out to be her undoing; by the time her barrier ran out, her companions were all dead, and she had to face the four of them all at once. As soon as she ran out of mana, Fenris reached into her chest and yanked out her heart with a grim sort of pleasure, hurling it to the ground as she collapsed in a heap. He ground it beneath his heel with an unpleasant squelch that turned Hawke’s stomach, despite her relief that the blood mage was dead.

They barely had time to catch their breath; as soon as Tarohne died, the column of light vanished, and the man inside fell to the ground with a crash. He was unconscious but clearly breathing. Other than a few cuts and bruises, he looked unharmed.

“Could he be possessed? Like the other recruit we ran into on Sundermount?” Hawke wondered out loud.

Merrill tentatively stepped closer, gingerly touching a finger to one of his wounds. She brought the finger to her nose and sniffed. “No.” She shook her head. “There are no demons in his blood.”

“Would you stake our lives on it?” Fenris asked darkly.

“I would, actually.” Merrill looked at him with guileless eyes the color of spring grass. Fenris grunted but fell silent. Hawke nodded to herself. She trusted Merrill; if she said he was clean, then he was clean.

“What were they doing to the poor man?” Bethany shuddered. “I’ve never seen anything like it. And… forcing demons into unwilling hosts. Everything Father taught us…” She caught herself, deliberately not looking at her sister. “Taught me, I mean… he said you have to agree to a demon’s bargain for it to possess you.”

“Maybe now you will see more clearly why mages must be feared,” Fenris muttered to Hawke, who at that moment could have stabbed him in the lungs with no remorse. She was already feeling ill imagining the kind of magic these mages had inflicted upon the unsuspecting Templar recruits. Why did they always have to run into mages who were both evil and insane? Was Fenris right when he insisted that magic was a power that corrupted absolutely? She glanced at Bethany and tried to imagine her as a crazed blood mage, thirsting for power. No, she couldn’t. It was impossible. And even Merrill, with her insatiable curiosity for any and all knowledge, would never hurt a fly. Or would she? What would happen if the Templars came for them, what would they be willing to do to save themselves? What would she, Marian Hawke, do, if they were ever to discover her and threaten to lock her up in the Gallows and throw away the key? Would she shake hands with a demon after all?

“Not all mages are like that!” Bethany cried, interrupting her spiraling doubts. “How many times do you have to fight alongside us to realize we aren’t all monsters?”

Fenris eyed her warily. “All mages have the potential to become monsters. It is a struggle to avoid that fate, and many give in to it in the end. You have not yet, I concede, though I couldn’t say the same for… others we know.”

Merrill smiled cheerfully at Fenris, unperturbed. “Says the man who just ripped out someone’s heart and stomped on it. You don’t need magic to be a monster, Fenris.”

“Shut up, both of you.” Hawke snapped, though she had to admit that Merrill had a point. “He’s coming to.”

They watched him warily as the young man started to stir. He coughed, opened his eyes, then slowly struggled to his feet (to Hawke’s relief, he was wearing smallclothes, so he wasn’t completely in the altogether), his gaze glassy and confused as he took in the four strangers, then the dead mages on the ground. A breath of relief escaped him. “Thank the Maker. I… I was beginning to think he had abandoned me.”

“Keran?” Hawke asked cautiously. “Your sister sent us to find you.”

“Macha!” he cried, and seemed on the verge of tears. “Sister. Andraste’s mercy. How long have I been down here?”

“Maybe a week.” Hawke answered absently. “I’m sorry, I know all of this must be a shock, but could you tell us what happened to you?”

The young man shook his head. “I… don’t know. I was… with a woman.” He blushed. Clearly being trapped and tortured by maleficar had done nothing for his prudish sensibilities. “Then it gets a bit blurry. It’s like a dream, a nightmare. Demons… and claws. And her.” He glanced down at Tarohne’s head, looking like he was about to be sick. “She was… feeding off me, somehow, I don’t know.” He shuddered.

“Well, it’s over now.” Hawke tried to sound reassuring. “We’ll help you get back to the Gallows, and you can put this whole thing behind you.”

Keran wrapped his arms around himself and nodded slowly. He looked more like a lost child wanting his mother than a grown man and a Templar. Hawke was surprised when Fenris put a hand on Keran’s shoulder and spoke to him gently. “Come then. Your sister will be eager to see you are alive and well.”

Of course he would have sympathy for a man who had suffered at the hands of mages. Hawke remembered how Tarohne’s heart had squelched under his heel and repressed a shudder. _Is that where our relationship is headed?_

***

Fenris would never have admitted it, but he was absolutely exhausted, with a bone-deep weariness he hadn’t felt since he’d stopped running from Danarius’s slave hunters. Hawke also looked like she was close to falling over. They had all downed a healing potion each after the battle with the blood mages, but such potions did nothing for fatigue. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into his bed and sleep for a week. Hawke had tried to convince him that she could make the report to Cullen on her own, but he’d merely shrugged and said he’d stay with her until their task was well and truly over. Obviously she wasn’t about to let Merrill or Bethany accompany them to the Gallows either. The two of them discreetly disappeared into the crowd once they emerged from Darktown.

Hawke had planned to take him to Cullen’s office, but they had barely entered the Gallows before they ran into the Knight Captain trying to placate a distraught Macha, who was speaking to him in tears. Both of them turned at the same time as Hawke and Fenris approached, Keran between them. She screamed Keran’s name before launching herself at her brother, clinging to him as she sobbed in relief. He hugged her tightly, trying to hold back his own tears, but quickly disengaged himself and stood at attention as best he could. “Knight Captain.”

“At ease, Keran,” Cullen said softly. “I’m glad to see you safe and whole.”

Hawke gave Cullen a brief summary of what they’d found underground, emphasizing that all the blood mages were dead and that there had been no witnesses to the battle. She also added that they were certain Keran was not possessed, despite his long time in captivity.

“How can you be so sure?” Cullen asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.

“We… ran some tests.” Hawke smiled at him disarmingly, daring him to ask further. The Knight Captain was clearly still doubtful, but perhaps he realized that in this case ignorance was most likely the path of least resistance. He shrugged and shook their hands before handing Hawke a small pouch of coins.

“The Order is grateful for your help in this matter, Serah Hawke, as well as your discretion.”

Hawke pocketed the money and gave Cullen a wide grin. “You’re very welcome, Knight Captain. If you are ever in need of my help again… or my discretion, you know where to find me.”

Cullen sighed and looked to the heavens. “You are always easy to find, serah.”

As they left the Gallows, Hawk fished around in the pouch and handed Fenris a coin. He took it and held it up to the light. It was gold. “The Knight Captain was generous, I see.”

“He’s just desperately hoping that the phrase _possessed Templars_ doesn’t get around Kirwall.” Hawke shrugged. “People would panic, to put it lightly, and I’m guessing that Meredith would be less than pleased. I doubt Cullen wants to be on her bad side. Although does that woman have a good side?” She paused to indulge in an enormous yawn. “Maker’s breath. I don’t know about you, Fenris, but I could sleep for a week.”

She looked up at him with a tired smile on her lips, her heavily-lidded eyes shadowed with hollows of exhaustion. There was a smudge of grime on her left cheekbone, and he unthinkingly wiped it away with his thumb, his hand lingering on her face. Her eyes opened a little wider at that, and her smile subtly shifted from tired to… suggestive. But they were both half-dead on their feet. He felt a mixture of disappointment and relief at the wave of fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Get some sleep, Hawke,” he suggested, dropping his hand.

Hawke laughed softly and waved good bye as she slowly turned away, seeming half-reluctant. He watched her disappear into the crowd. He’d had half a mind to tell her he had many spare beds, but it seemed a bit rude to invite a woman to sleep in a decrepit mansion on dusty sheets. And would she have taken it as an insult? She hadn’t exactly rebuffed his advances so far, but maybe asking her to take things any further would have been crossing a line. Fenris rubbed his eyes and started making his way back home. Trying to read Hawke’s mind on two hours of sleep was futile, he decided. He would puzzle things over with Hawke on a different day, and perhaps with the aid of more fine wine from Danarius’s seemingly bottomless cellar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 2019 Aug 5: minor edit fixing a POV inconsistency


	4. Talk to Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke finally talks to Anders about her secret, with mixed results.

“We need to talk, Bethy.”

It was a cool, overcast morning, and Hawke had convinced Bethany to take a walk with her just outside the city walls. She wasn’t really a nature person – she much preferred the contained chaos of the city to the wide open wilderness – but sometimes it was nice to get a breath of fresh air. Kirkwall always smelled vaguely of _something_ , whether it was the damp miasma that pervaded Darktown, the rotting fish of the Docks, or the artificial perfumes and pomades of Hightown’s nobility. Here, it was just dirt and grass and trees. And no prying eyes and ears, most importantly.

They had settled themselves in a small clearing away from the main path. Bethany was idly plaiting bits of long grass, humming under her breath. She looked at her sister with curiosity. “What is it, Mari? You sound serious.”

Hawke was chewing on her lower lip before she realized what she was doing. She forced herself to stop and took a deep breath. “Anders knows.”

“Anders knows what?” Bethany froze and stared at her sister as she silently answered her own question. “Sweet Andraste. How? When?”

“It was… in The Blooming Rose. When the blood mage had us under a glamor.” Hawke shuddered, feeling her skin crawl as she reluctantly remembered what it had been like. The sensation of being invaded against her will, of her body not being her own. “You can’t imagine what it was like. When she told me to cut my own throat… it was like I was two people, and I was screaming at myself not to do it, but the other self just… accepted that I was going to do it, that it was inevitable, that there was no escape. And no matter how hard I screamed, I couldn’t reach that other self. I knew…” Hawke swallowed, remembering the feeling of cold steel on her skin. “I knew I was going to die.”

Bethany was pale. “You didn’t tell me this before.”

“What use would it have been?” Hawke shrugged half-heartedly. “It was already done.”

“So you broke her spell using one of your own?” Bethany was incredulous

Hawke’s mouth twisted in a not-quite smile. “I surprised myself, honestly. It was just a mind blast. She wasn’t expecting it, so it threw her off balance, and that was enough to break her glamor. And then I… I stabbed her before she could do anything else. I shouldn’t have done it.” Hawke pressed her hands to her eyes, not knowing if she was referring to the magic or the stabbing. “I shouldn’t have done it, Bethy! But what else could I do?”

“Oh, Marian.” Bethany reached over and hugged her sister tightly. “I’m glad you did it. I should have been there with you! That’s your own fault, you know,” she added, only half-jokingly. “How am I supposed to watch your back if you keep trying to leave me behind?”

Hawke gave her sister a wry smile, refusing to take the bait. “I should have asked Anders to break the glamor, although I suppose he might have been trying already.” She sighed. “I suppose I panicked. And Fenris was more strongly affected by the glamor than either of us, I think. He didn’t even suspect anything was… out of the ordinary.”

“I’m not surprised. Fenris sees only what he wants to see.” Bethany spoke sharply. “And even he wouldn’t have been able to fault you for trying to save your own life!”

Hawke absently pulled up a few bits of grass, staring at the ground. “But it was… such a thrill, Bethany. The rush of magic. One moment I was completely helpless, knowing I was going to die, and the next… it wasn’t even just relief at being free from her spell. It was that flow of power, filling me until I felt like I could do anything, even though I _knew_ that my magic was far weaker than hers. But still, it felt so _satisfying._ ” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I hate that feeling.”

“You only feel that way because you spend so much time denying your own magic!” Bethany grabbed her sister’s hands. “I know you’re afraid of using it, but I’m telling you, if you used it like a normal mage it would just become… part of your life. Not something to be feared so much.”

Hawke opened her eyes and eyed Bethany in disbelief. “Are you telling me you don’t _ever_ feel tempted to let your magic pour unchecked from your fingertips? That when you cast your spells you don’t feel the power calling to you, tempting you to just let yourself go?”

Bethany met her gaze unflinchingly. “I would be lying if I said no. But temptation is not exclusive to magic. Temptation is part of life. And I trust myself to keep it at bay. You should give yourself more credit, sister.”

“You were always the optimistic one.” Hawke half-smiled and shook her head. “I remember being at Ostagar, waiting for the darkspawn, thinking none of us would see the light of day, and Carver saying ‘If Bethany were here, she’d already be planning our victory breakfast for tomorrow.’”

Bethany laughed, though it caught in her throat, and her eyes were suddenly overly bright. “Well, someone had to do it. Carver was always preparing for rain even when there wasn’t a cloud in sight. As for you, big sister, you do have a tendency to cast yourself as the heroine of your own melodrama.”

Hawke laughed a little at Bethany’s all too accurate assessment. She squeezed her sister’s hand. “I miss him, Bethy. I miss him so much.”

“I miss him, too.” Bethany said quietly.

They sat for a few moments in silence, Hawke trying not to dwell on the horror of Carter’s last moments, dying in their mother’s arms as the stench of darkspawn hung heavy in the air. Instead she tried to imagine what Carter would tell her if he were there now, listening to her problems. Carver had always thought her reluctance to use magic was stupid. _Why are you wasting your time trying to deny what makes you special?_ he’d asked her once, and that had only served to antagonize her further. The only thing special about her was an unpredictable skillset that was also her greatest vulnerability? She refused to accept that.

“Have you spoken to Anders?”

Hawke groaned. “No. I would rather not, to be honest, but I suppose it’s unavoidable.”

Bethany narrowed her eyes. “What are you afraid of? Anders is a mage, just like us.”

“Precisely the reason I don’t want to discuss it with him.” Hawke rolled her eyes. “You know what he’s like, Bethany. He will never understand why I choose not to use my magic, and he will consider it his duty to change my mind. I foresee a very passionate and deadly tedious lecture in my near future.”

 Bethany frowned. “It might do you some good to listen to him. You know I love you, Marian, but your obsession with denying your magic is unhealthy.”

“Forgive me for not wanting to end up living in a small cell where some Templar is going to get his jollies watching me undress every night,” Hawke said dryly.

“Hiding your magic is not the same as denying it.” Bethany persisted, her normally gentle face furrowed with the beginnings of anger. “I don’t want to be dragged to the Gallows any more than you do. But I’ve never stopped myself from using my magic when it’s needed. I’ve never lied to the people I trust about what I am. Varric, Isabela, Aveline… even Fenris would never betray us to the Templars. You know that. But still you’ve never told them the truth. And you have this gift that could help you do so much more good in the world, and you just pretend it doesn’t exist! How long are you going to live like this?”

Hawke shook her head wearily. “I’m not having this argument with you again, Bethy. I respect that you feel differently about your magic than I do, and I’ve never tried to make you feel otherwise. But you can’t change how I feel about my own. And neither can Anders, though he doesn’t know that yet.”

Bethany sighed loudly, but Hawke knew that her sister could never stay angry at her for long, and she deliberately smiled and nudged her playfully with her elbow. “Anyway, I’m not Anders’s favorite Hawke, so I doubt he cares much about what I think about anything.”

Bethany flushed. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“You have been spending an inordinate amount of time in Darktown these days, sitting on those appalling arse-numbing stools while the two of you read the most boring books known to humanity.” Hawke paused and grinned widely. “Or have I been completely fooled? Are the two of you actually hiding smutty pirate romances behind the covers of some mage textbook? Bethany Hawke, I’m surprised at you.”

Bethany slapped her sister’s arm in annoyance. “Don’t be ridiculous, Marian. Anders is… just a friend. And it’s nice having another mage to talk to, seeing as you’re too busy pretending not to be one.”

“What about Merrill?”

“Merrill is lovely, but she speaks of blood magic and demons like they’re completely normal things. I suppose for her they are.” Bethany shivered. “Anders is smart, and funny, and he has the best stories about his time as a Warden. I like spending time with him, that’s all.”

Hawke laughed a little at how defensive Bethany sounded. “Bethy, what does it matter if you are more than friends? You’re a grown woman, you can spend time with whomever you choose. Even a possessed hobo mage.”

Bethany laughed a little, but then shrugged and sighed, looking away. “Anders doesn’t think of me that way, Mari. I’m just like a little sister to him.”

Hawke paused. She could see her sister was actually hurt at the thought of Anders seeing her that way, and she decided not to tease Bethany any further. Instead she linked arms with her and affectionately put her head on her shoulder. “Well, he’s a stupid possessed hobo mage then, and as your sister I must inform you that you can do much better than an unshaven fugitive living in a diseased Darktown hovel.”

Bethany laughed and nudged her sister in the ribs. “Says the girl involved with a tattooed ex-slave illegally squatting in an abandoned mansion. Oh, and did I mention he’s being actively hunted by Tevinter magisters?” And Hawke couldn’t help but laugh with her at the irony of it all. The Maker, if he existed, clearly had a shitty sense of humor.

***

“Hawke. I was hoping you’d stop by.”

Hawke carefully closed the door behind her, relieved to see that for once the clinic was empty. Anders was holding a notebook in one hand and a quill in the other, but he quickly put them away in a cupboard and motioned her to sit on one of his awful stools. “Tea?”

He didn’t wait for her reply but turned and busied himself at the stove in the corner, where a kettle of water was always simmering. Hawke took the mug he offered her and sniffed cautiously. It smelled faintly bitter but not unpleasant. She took a cautious sip and tasted something herbal and fresh, an odd contrast to the dank air around them. Anders hadn’t sat down but was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking at her with something between anticipation and apprehension.

“Well. You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” she began, but stopped when Anders barked a laugh.

“You must be joking, Hawke. I bloody know why you’re here! _You’re a fucking mage, that’s the bloody reason you’re here!_ ”

Hawke couldn’t help smiling despite the serious of the situation. His indignation was almost comical. “There’s no need to be vulgar.”

“You are impossible.” Anders huffed, though his lips twitched in what might have been reluctant amusement. He sighed and made a visible effort to calm himself, closing his eyes for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me? Have you been hiding this from _everyone?_ ”

“More or less.” Now that it was out in the open, Hawke felt almost light-headed with relief. It was liberating to be able to talk to someone about her secret, even a seditious hobo mage. “Obviously my family knows, but… apart from them, you are the first in Kirkwall to know.” She smiled sweetly at him. “You should be honored.”

Anders smirked despite himself. “Yes, I’ll make a note of the day in my diary. ‘Today is the anniversary of finding out that Hawke is a sneaky two-faced liar.’”

Hawke couldn’t help but bristle at his jibe. “I never lied to you or anyone, Anders. It’s no one business whether I have magic or not, especially since I never even use it.”

Anders crossed his arms. “You must be joking, Hawke. You of all people know that the Templars makes it their business to know about everyone’s magic. In their eyes we’re all criminals.”

“Speak for yourself.” Hawke tossed her head and shrugged, her mouth set in a stubborn line. “You’re only a criminal if you _use_ your magic. And I don’t. No one knows or cares about your magic if you don’t use it. I don’t see what the problem is.”

“But you _did_ use it, you idiot.” Anders argued. “You used it to save yourself from cutting your own throat. Which is a perfectly legitimate use of magic, but the Templars wouldn’t see it that way. You are an _apostate_ , just like me, just like your sister, just like countless other mages in Kirkwall. What’s the point in pretending otherwise?”

“I. Don’t. Want it.” Hawke snapped. “I don’t want magic, I never have. If I could go the rest of my life without ever having to cast another spell, I would be perfectly happy. I refuse to let it take over my life.”

“But clearly you’re not averse to making use of the magic of others.” Anders retorted. “So you let your sister take all the risks and take none yourself.”

Hawke jumped to her feet as a surge of anger rushed through her, and she had the momentary impulse to punch Anders in the kidneys. “What Bethany chooses to do with her magic is her business. She stays by my side because she’s my sister and we love each other, as difficult as that may be for a loner fugitive apostate to understand.” Hawke took cruel pleasure in making Anders flinch. “If she told me today that she wanted to stop being a mage, I would be nothing but relieved.”

“You can never stop being a mage, Hawke.” Anders threw up his hands in exasperation. “It doesn’t matter if you tell yourself you won’t touch mana for the rest of your life. Magic is something you’re born with. Whether you like it or not, it’s a part of who you are, and it connects you to every other mage in Thedas. And it’s hypocritical of you to stand by and pretend that the problems of the mages in Kirkwall are not your own.”

Hawke sighed and looked away from Anders’s angry face. “I’m sorry, Anders, but this is why I don’t tell anyone about my magic. As soon as people know you’re a mage, that’s all they see when they look at you. You may as well have MAGE branded on your forehead. What I am, who I am, for better or for worse – I can’t stand that people just want to boil it all down to the fact that I can do some fancy party tricks.”

“You’re making yourself part of the problem, Hawke.” Anders sounded almost pleading now, his dark eyes intent on her face. “People in Kirkwall know you and respect you. If they knew you were a mage, that could do so much good for the other mages in the city. You know they are being persecuted unfairly, regardless of what the Chantry says. You could be a symbol for them.”

Hawke had to stifle a laugh and was only partly successful. The idea that she could be a symbol for others was patently ridiculous. _Maybe if they’re looking for a symbol to represent a life that is an utter shitshow._ She could see that Anders was insulted by her response and tried to smoothen her face into serious lines. “I’m not laughing at you, Anders, I’m laughing at myself. I think you’re cracked if you think anyone would want to look up to me, unless their life goal is chaos and general mayhem.” She put a conciliatory hand on his arm, softening her tone. “You know I’ve done my best to help mages in need, Anders. But if you think I’m going to help you spearhead some sort of mass mage rebellion in Kirkwall, you’ll be sadly disappointed.” She gave him a gentle slap on the arm, her tone deliberately light.  “And don’t think to drag Bethany into this. If you get her into trouble I’ll make you wish the Templars had put you in the Gallows instead.”

He put his hand over hers, which surprised her; she had been bracing for another strongly-worded argument. He had large hands with calloused but slender fingers. She had seen his hands in action many times, wrapping bandages, constructing poultices, prodding limbs, working healing magic. They’d healed her own wounds numerous times, but this time felt different, somehow. His hand felt firm and warm against her own. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Hawke.” Hawke blinked at his echoing of what Bethany had said to her just a few hours ago. “I’ve never met another woman like you.” He squeezed her hand and looked at her earnestly, his gaze glued to her face. “You could help so many more people, if you just had a little more faith in yourself.”

Hawke felt slightly uncomfortable at his intensity and found herself laughing overly loudly as she slipped her hand out from under his. “You give me far too much credit, Anders, so I think we end up balancing each other out.”

He regarded Hawke with what seemed to her a mixture of exasperation and friendly affection. At least, that’s what she hoped it was. “Suit yourself, Hawke. At any rate, you know I won’t betray your secret to anyone, even though I don’t approve. You should at least tell the others.” He frowned, and Hawke thought she saw a hint of blue stir in his dark eyes. “Anyone who would turn their back on you for this… they don’t deserve your friendship. You’d be better off without them.”

Hawke didn’t have to rack her brain to figure out whom Anders was talking about. Rationally, she knew he was probably right: if Fenris was going to desert her after learning she was a mage, she might as well know it now rather than later. The worst possible scenario was him finding out in the middle of a battle while they were surrounded by enemies. Would he wait until the battle was over? Just abandon her to her fate on the spot? Or turn on her then and there? The worst part was, she wasn’t even sure which was more likely to happen. She didn’t think it was delusional to think they had become friends, but she also didn’t think he was the type to give someone the benefit of the doubt after they’d betrayed his trust, particularly when it involved deceiving him about magic.

“Hawke?” Anders touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Hawke blinked and pulled herself out of her musings with an effort. “Sorry, I’m just a little tired. I think I’m going to head home now. But thank you, Anders. I appreciate your understanding.”

“Don’t thank me. I haven’t given up on you yet.” He grinned at her so shamelessly that she had to smile. “And… I know I told you that I wanted nothing to do with your expedition… but I’ve changed my mind. If you say you need me, I’m yours for the taking.”

“Are you sure?” Hawke was surprised. “Not that I’m not grateful, but you made it very clear the first time we met that you were never going back to the Deep Roads ever.”

“Don’t remind me.” Anders groaned. “I can’t say the prospect fills me with joy, but I think I might miss you if you ended up being slaughtered by darkspawn. At least with me you’ll have a fighting chance.”

“Hm.” Hawke pretended to think. “Two weeks of enduring your so-called witticisms versus being punched by an ogre. You’ll have to let me sleep on it.”

As she left Anders’s hovel and headed back to Lowtown, Hawke realized to her surprise that she actually felt better after their conversation. It was not the result she’d expected. But for so long she’d never been able to speak to her magic about anyone except for Bethany, and even then she’d always felt guarded, reluctant to be truly honest with her little sister lest she worry Bethany unnecessarily. The thought that there was another person in the world – a friend – with whom she could be honest with was a much greater relief than she’d anticipated. Even if said friend was bent on converting her to his particular set of radical beliefs. She thought of Fenris with a pang. It was undeniable that there was something between them, but did it matter in the end, if their relationship could be destroyed by a single essential fact about who she was? She had always told herself that she refused to let herself be shaped by her magic. And until she had come to Kirkwall, she’d thought she’d be able to live the rest of her life pretending her magic didn’t exist. But Anders was right about one thing – it was impossible to be neutral in Kirkwall, where the entire city seemed to be simmering on the edge of a boil. Her relationship – or whatever it was – with Fenris was insignificant in the larger scheme of things, but her feelings for him were tangled up in her mind with her everything else that it seemed impossible to separate emotion from reason. One thing was certain – she wouldn’t be able to keep this secret for much longer. Anders had also been right about that – being pushed into life-or-death situations wasn’t at all conducive to avoiding magic use. _Maybe tomorrow the Qunari will invade and put me out of my misery._ Hawke smiled grimly to herself as she stalked through the tunnels of Darktown, half-hoping that a cutthroat would be stupid enough to try his luck on her so she could take out her frustrations on someone that at least deserved to be stabbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke doesn't know it, but shit is hitting the fan very soon.


	5. Night Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night on the town ends in painful regret.

Fenris woke with a start, fading nightmares clinging to him like the dank miasma of Darktown. He was on his feet before he realized where he was – in the dusty, abandoned mansion that was now where he called home. The dreams had fled the moment he’d opened his eyes, but the vague feeling of despair and terror malingered like the aftertaste of a cheap wine, thick and sour on his tongue. He forced himself to relax, straightening from the near-crouching position he’d instinctively adapted. It was dark – he’d dozed off just before sunset, and now it was well past it. What had awoken him?

“Fenris?” He could hear Hawke’s voice from the foyer, echoing in the empty corridors. “Are you home?”

He cleared his throat. “Just a moment.” He groped around in the darkness for his armor and shrugged himself into it, then strapped his sword in its familiar position on his back before going out to meet Hawke.

She was standing by the front door, her silhouette just visible in the darkness. The curtains were always drawn, and only the faintest of light from the street lamps slipped through. He could hear her cloak rustling as she moved to greet him at the bottom of the staircase. “Isn’t it a bit uncomfortable to be lounging around at home in all your armor?” she asked, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

“I don’t … lounge,” he replied evenly.

“Then what do you do?”

“I run from room to room, choreographing dance routines.”

He was rewarded with a peal of raucous laughter. “Make sure to tell Varric so he can put that in his book. He would call it a humanizing character trait.”

She was standing only an arm’s length away from him, and he could feel the space between them charged with tension – not unpleasant by any means, but a crackling energy that he could feel prickling against his skin. He felt both a strong desire to touch her and an odd reluctance to do so, as if the electricity between them might actually explode if they came into physical contact. He could hear her breathing in the darkness, smell the earthy herbal fragrance of her soap mingled with the familiar warmth that was purely Hawke. The space of a few breaths felt like an eternity.

“I came here to tell you that I finally did it,” she said, breaking the silence. “I gave Betrand his fifty gold for the expedition. We’re leaving in two days.”

Fenris felt himself crack a rare smile, sincerely happy for her. “Well done, Hawke. I hope your efforts are rewarded. You’ve certainly earned it.”

“Getting out of Gamlen’s hovel in Lowtown would be reward enough.” Hawke remarked. “But anyway. I’m here because I’m hoping I can convince you to come with us.”

“An invitation to descend into the bowels of the earth and wrestle with Darkspawn? I’m flattered.”

“You should be.” Hawke laughed. “You know I would fairly split whatever treasure we found down there,” she added in a more serious tone.

Fenris had half-expected Hawke to make this request, and until this moment he still hadn’t been sure what his answer would be. He still owed Hawke a debt, and if he did follow her, it wasn’t going to be for mercenary pay. On the other hand, the Deep Roads were the Deep Roads, and he hadn’t escaped Danarius just to be eaten by Darkspawn before he’d barely begun to enjoy the taste of freedom. But now he felt an almost physical pang at the thought of watching her march into danger while he stayed behind in Kirkwall. He wasn’t sure why; she was the most capable woman he knew, and it wasn’t as if she were going alone. Was he letting his desire for her cloud his rational judgement?

“Aveline said she would come with me if I asked,” Hawke said quietly, and he realized he’d been lost in thought. “And I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to come. The possibility that it will all end badly is unfortunately a real one.”

Her voice was carefully neutral. Fenris had an impulse to reach out and cup her face in his hands, to crush her soft lips against his, to plunder her warm mouth with his tongue. Instead he tried to match his tone to hers. “We’ve survived the worst Kirkwall has to offer. If I’m being honest, it’s become rather boring. Perhaps the Darkspawn will offer more amusement. I should keep my skills sharp for when Danarius’s dogs finally find me.”

Hawke was silent for a moment longer before replying, her voice suddenly light-hearted. “I’m sure we can find you enough Darkspawn to keep you from getting fat and lazy.” She offered him her hand. “Are we agreed then?”

He took it and shook it firmly. “We are agreed.”

They stood in the dark, hands clasped. Fenris was still, wanting to pull her closer, unsure how she would react. She was as motionless as a statue, and the darkness made it impossible to read her face. “Let me buy you a drink then,” she offered, finally letting go. “I suppose we could sign a contract in blood to make it truly official, but a drink would be much more pleasant.”

“The wine cellar here is still more than half full,” he noted, wondering if he was being too transparent in his motivations.

“I’m sure you are sick of fine wine by now,” she replied cheerfully. “We can go to The Blooming Rose and have some overpriced whiskey while watching rich idiots make fools of themselves.”

“Who could say no to that?” Fenris shrugged, deciding to follow her lead. He had thought that once he left the life of a slave behind he would always be his own master, but he found he quite liked being led by Hawke. Life with her was often unpredictable but certainly never boring.

***

The Blooming Rose was as crowded as ever, but Madame Lusine unceremoniously kicked out a couple of inebriated and growingly belligerent patrons to make room for Hawke and Fenris. Hawke knew the madam was grateful for her discretion following the Idunna incident. _That’s what I’m good at, stabbing people and holding my tongue afterwards._ She wondered if finding enough treasure on this Dark Roads expedition might means she could stop living a life of bloody chaos, where every day seemed to introduce her to some new low her fellow humans had managed to achieve. _I bloody doubt it._

“You seem preoccupied,” Fenris remarked as he poured her a glass from the bottle of whiskey Lusine had left on their table.

Hawke sniffed the glass, savoring the sharp fragrance before taking a sip. “I’m just daydreaming about how to spend my riches once we return from the expedition. Do you think buying a brothel would be a good investment?”

Fenris took a swallow of whiskey and seemed to be considering her question seriously. “Flesh is always for sale, so in terms of long-term profit, I’d say yes. I suppose at least here the participants are willing.”

“I wasn’t serious,” Hawke said hastily. “Andraste’s tits, I can’t even imagine Mother’s face if I told her I’d bough a brothel. She’d most likely skin me alive.”

Fenris gave a half-smile, his eyes intent on her face. “The infamous Marian Hawke, afraid of what her mother thinks of her. No one would believe it.”

Hawke felt a little flutter in her belly hearing Fenris say her first name in his husky voice. _This was a bad idea, Marian Hawke, you massive bint._ She knew getting drunk at Fenris’s estate would have led to trouble; trouble she both longed for and was trying desperately to avoid. She’d told herself that getting drunk in public would at least prevent an ending where they both ended up naked in bed. _Although drinking in a brothel is a terrible choice if one is trying to avoid shagging one’s drinking partner._ She tried to mask her tangled thoughts with a forced laugh, taking another sip of whiskey. “What about you, Fenris, what would you do?”

Fenris stared thoughtfully into his glass, swirling the golden liquid around. “I have fantasized often about freedom, but never wealth. What would I do with a pile of gold? Unless it were enough to bring the entire Tevinter empire to its knees, it would matter little to me.”

“You might try starting small, such as buying a house so Aveline could stop fussing over guard schedules every bloody week,” Hawke suggested dryly. “And maybe buy her a nice present to say thank you for keeping you from the city prisons. What about some flowers? Everyone likes flowers.”

Fenris shrugged. “She likes keeping me in her debt, I suspect. More than she’d like a bouquet of flowers.” Hawke had to laugh in agreement.

“So if you don’t plan to buy a brothel, then what do you plan to do?” Fenris persisted. “Assuming we actually find anything valuable down there and don’t end up in the bellies of the nearest Darkspawn.”

Hawke felt a brief pang – it was something that Carter might have said, had he lived to come to Kirkwall. She felt Fenris’s gaze upon her and quickly rolled her eyes in pronounced annoyance. “Always such a ray of sunshine.” She shrugged. “Unfortunately my plans are predictably mundane. I just want to help Mother reclaim the family estate so we can all escape that awful hovel that Gamlen calls home. Then maybe we’ll all be less inclined to murder each other every week.” _Then maybe Mother will stop looking at me with those sad, disappointed eyes every time I come home at night._

Fenris was still looking at her with that impassive face, his brooding green eyes seeming to pierce straight through her flippant façade. “Let us imagine for a moment that you do not have familial obligations. Then what would you do?”

His steady gaze made her heart skip a beat, but she did her best to give a non-committal _hmph_. “I never really thought about it. I can barely remember a time I was never responsible for someone. When Father was alive, it was mostly Carter I was saddled with. Bethany was always tucked under Father’s wing.” _Though that was my choice, I suppose._ Her father soon stopped offering to teach her more magic once she made it clear she wasn’t interested, though he never stopped looking at her with his sad, disappointed eyes. _I sense a theme emerging in my life._ “Then when he passed, it was the whole family. Mother more or less fell apart after he died. Carter wanted to be the man of the family, but he was always too busy trying to prove he was better than me. And Bethany… well, you know what she’s like.”

She waited for Fenris to make some sort of derisive comment about mages, but he was silent, still staring at her intently. Hawke sighed and took another swig of whiskey. She could feel the warmth in her cheeks, the slight fuzziness around the edges of her brain making her feel somewhat reckless. “I would leave Kirkwall,” she blurted out, surprising herself at how vehement she sounded. “This city. It’s rotten from the inside out. Sometimes I feel as if I’m rotting along with it. I barely recognize myself anymore.”

Fenris looked unimpressed by her outburst. “You are a good person, Hawke. There are plenty of people, even this Maker-forsaken city, that would attest to that.”

“And plenty that wouldn’t.” Hawke twisted her lips into a bitter smile. “I dream, sometimes, of just… leaving it all behind. Maybe I’d go back to Ferelden, or maybe… I don’t know, I’d travel somewhere where no one has ever heard of me or my family.” She smiled with more humor this time. “I could drink my way through all the cities of Antiva.”

“That would take some time, even for you,” Fenris noted.

Hawke leaned forward with her eyes narrowed mockingly. “Well, not all of us have the advantage of building up our tolerance emptying seemingly endless wine cellars.”

“You’re always welcome to join me,” he replied with a smirk. “Who knows, if we follow the wine cellars to their end, we might end up in Antiva after all.”

Hawke felt a silly glow of warmth at the “we” in his sentence. “Well, just know that I’m not hauling your drunken carcass back to Kirkwall if you end up passed out in the streets of Antiva City.”

Fenris leaned towards her, putting his hand on her armrest but not quite touching her skin, and Hawke found herself holding her breath. His low voice sent a thrill up her spine. “Why would we come back to Kirkwall?”

His face was less than a handspan away from hers – all she could see were his eyes, two pools of unfathomable viridian that seemed to be drawing her away from herself. She allowed herself a brief moment of fantasy – the two of them together in some exotic tropical city, no armor or steel weighing them down, flesh against flesh. Nothing else would matter.

“Excuse me, miss. Is this knife-ear bothering you?”

Hawke looked up, confused, to see two city guardsmen standing over them. The one who had spoken was tall and pale, with a shaved head and an unkempt beard. Something about the tilt of his chin made her take an instant disliking to him, but she tried to be polite. The last thing she wanted was to make more trouble for Aveline, though Aveline certainly wouldn’t be pleased if she learned that her guardsmen were patronizing The Blooming Rose in full uniform.

“No, he is not. We’re here together, actually. But thank you for your concern.”

She turned her head to make it clear the conversation was over, but the arsehole loomed over them with a leer. “Now why would a nice girl like you be hanging out with a weedy, low-class elf? Just say the word and we’ll put him out on his ear. Hah! On his ear!” He brayed with ugly laughter, and his partner joined him, spraying the air with spittle.

Hawke closed her eyes for a moment, praying that Fenris would refrain from decapitating this imbecile on the spot – she doubted Lusine’s gratitude would extend as far as forgiving a murder in front of the entire brothel; a severed head would definitely be bad for business. But Fenris seemed more amused than anything else. He was sitting back in his chair, looking completely uninterested, but Hawke caught a glint in his eye, secure in the knowledge that these two louts posed no real threat.

She opened her eyes and studied the two men. Upon first glance they were dressed in the muted orange of the city guard, but closer examination revealed rust on their armor and frayed edges of their tunics. Hawke knew Aveline, and she knew for a fact that her friend would never tolerate such sloppiness in her soldiers. She ran a tight ship, and the guard respected her for it. These twats were no real guards then. In the past they had occasionally run across groups of thugs in Hightown, masquerading as city guards, but Hawke had assumed they were just disorganized gangs looking for easy prey. Now she wondered if there was a more concerted effort going on in the backstreets of Hightown. Aveline would want to know.

“Does your Guard-Captain know you are publicly acting like drunken idiots while in uniform?” Fenris queried mildly.

“Mind your tongue and show some respect, knife ear,” the false guard threatened with a snarl. “We’re going to escort this good lady away from your filthy hands so she can sit with us. You don’t want to be seen in public with his sort.” This was directed at Hawke. “People’ll get the wrong idea about what kind of girl you are.”

He grabbed Hawke’s wrist and made to yank her out of her chair. Hawke, however, had been waiting almost gleefully for him to make the first move. As soon as his fingers touched her arm she snatched up one of her daggers and pressed the edge against his neck before he could blink. “Touch me again and you’ll be choking on your own blood,” she promised him with her sweetest smile. He stared at her with disbelief that was quickly replaced by rage. His friend cursed and reached for his sword, but Fenris was on his feet and his fingers were digging into the man’s ribs, sinking through his flesh for a few long seconds before he yanked his hand back. The man fell to his knees, clutching his chest and gagging with surprise and pain.

“See, I think it’s you who has the wrong idea of what kind of girl I am,” Hawke said conversationally, pressing her dagger just the slightest bit harder so that a thin red line welled up along the edge. The man was very still, his eyes glittering with hatred. “You must have thought I was the stupidest bitch alive if you thought I’d give scum like you the time of day. Luckily for you, my friend is in the actual city guard and if I slit your throat right now it would mean a lot of paperwork for her, and she _loathes_ paperwork.” Hawke whipped her dagger back into its sheath, leaving an angry trail of scarlet in its wake. The man yelped and clapped a hand to his neck as he backed away, clearly furious but surprisingly smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

Hawke and Fenris watched the two thugs disappear out the door. “Aveline hates false guards more than she hates paperwork,” Fenris observed.

“She does that.” Hawke agreed. “But she’d want to hack them into little bits herself, not hear about it afterwards.”

Fenris chuckled. “How short-sighted of me.”

Hawke laughed and tossed back the rest of her whiskey, her mood inexplicably improved by having nearly slit someone’s throat. “Women always want you to save them a few demons and thugs to tear apart themselves, Fenris. I though you’d have learned by now.”

***

It was close to midnight when they finally left The Blooming Rose. Fenris felt pleasantly inebriated – they had finished the bottle of whiskey, which was much nicer than whatever it was they served at The Hanged Man. Hawke seemed disinclined to hurry home; she paused in the street to look up at the night sky, staring absently at the few stars peeking out from between the clouds. Fenris noticed the heightened flush in her cheeks, her dark hair escaping from its usual red bit of cloth and clinging messily to her face. He wondered how she would react if he reached out and brushed her hair away, twined her loose strands in his fingers, wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and tilted her head up to look at him so he could claim her mouth with his own…

“I’ll walk you home,” Hawke announced, turning to him with a smile.

Fenris raised an eyebrow, both amused and aroused by the slightly unfocused twinkle in her amber eyes. “I… don’t think that’s how it’s usually done.”

Hawke’s smile turned into a mischievous grin. “Fine, you can walk me to your home. Does that sound more appropriate?”

Fenris eyed her, intrigued. Earlier she’d seemed reluctant to drink with him at the estate, but now that was exactly what she was angling for, unless he was much mistaken. Was it the whiskey that had made her bolder? He had found her reluctance difficult to understand in the first place; surely they were both adults and free to bed whomever they liked. Then again, he was painfully aware that courting was an area he had no experience in. It was puzzling to him that a woman like Hawke, who never seemed to have trouble speaking her mind, would be so evasive and indirect. But he wasn’t about to complain. The thought of finally being able to have a naked and willing Hawke in his bed… he repressed a shudder of desire, trying not to get ahead of himself.

“I think that might be acceptable,” was all he said, offering her his arm as if they were about to step into a ballroom.

“Well, then.” Hawke took his arm with a small smile.

They walked a few blocks in companionable silence. The streets of Hightown were more or less empty at this hour, save the occasional nobleman drunkenly stumbling home. Fenris was acutely aware of Hawke’s hand in the crook of his arm, her fingers slender and cool against his skin. His thoughts were chasing each other in circles as he wondered if he was misinterpreting her desires. Was she merely reluctant to go home to a difficult family? Did she just to drown her worries in another bottle of wine with someone she thought of as a familiar companion?

“Oh, I saw a falling star!” Hawke exclaimed, stopping in her tracks and pointing up at the sky. He glanced up to see a patch of cloudless night dotted with light, then looked down into Hawke’s upturned face, her golden eyes wide and her lips parted with childish, drunken delight. He bent down and kissed her.

Their past kisses had been rushed and stolen. This time he was deliberately slow. His lips lingered on hers as he kissed them gently, carefully, savoring their softness and warmth. Her eyes were first wide with surprise, then fluttered close. She was very still but did not shy away. He kissed her bottom lip, her chin, the edge of her jawline, the tender lobes of her ears. He kissed the sensitive skin of her neck and a small sound escaped her. He tangled the fingers of his right hand in her hair and pulled gently, exposing her neck as he continued to move his mouth along her skin, tasting the sweet saltiness of her flesh.

“Fenris,” she whispered, her head tilted back, her hand gripping his wrist. He felt her press up against him and without thinking he shoved her against the nearest column so that her body was trapped underneath his own. His mouth found hers again, more roughly this time; he nipped her lower lip with his teeth; she bruised her tongue against his own. He knew she could feel his erection against her thigh; she thrust her hips against his and he clenched his teeth against a groan, summoning all his discipline to keep from spending himself like some inexperienced youth. Her hands slid down to touch him through his trousers; he caught them in his own and pinned her wrists against the wall. The thought of her touching his cock was arousing in the extreme, but there would be time enough for that. He held both her wrists tightly in one hand and recklessly put the other against her breast, cupping it in his palm. For once she wasn’t wearing any armor and there was only a thin layer of cloth between his and her flesh. He could feel her nipple, taut under his thumb, and Hawke whimpered softly as he gently pinched it between his fingers, feeling it tighten with her heightened arousal. Her eyes were open and unfocused, the golden light in them soft and diffused with alcohol and desire. Any doubt he’d had about her feelings were gone; she was here in his arms, as wanton and as willing as he was. He was almost certain he could take her here and now, in this dark alleyway like two drunkards with nowhere else to go.

The softest rasp of leather on cobblestone was all the warning he had, but it was enough. Without thinking he whirled around, whipping up his arms to catch the blade meant for his head against his gauntlets. He could feel the force behind the blow all the way to his marrow, but a bruise was preferable to a split skull. The attacker was thrown momentarily off balance and Fenris reacted with a swift kick to his gut, hard enough to knock the man back with a breathless grunt. He barely had time to blink before he found Fenris’s greatsword planted squarely in his chest. Blood spurted in all directions, staining the pavement black in the dim light of the streetlamps.

Hawke was already at his elbow, daggers in hand and her teeth clenched in a snarl. They were surrounded by a cluster of men that Fenris at first mistook for the city guard but quickly realized were associated with the two idiots that had harassed them a few hours prior at The Blooming Rose. He spotted one of them in the group, lurking behind his comrades from what he clearly deemed was a safe distance. Fenris took them all in with a glance and realized that these men were probably much more experienced than the idiot in question. They were all eyeing him cautiously but not at all fearfully, and he knew that he had lost the advantage of surprise. They’d seen him move, and they’d learned he wasn’t easy prey.

“Heard you were rude to my boys,” one of them rasped. He was an older man, balding, with dark eyes that glinted coldly in a weathered, stony face. “Here we are, working night and day to keep you peasants safe, and you can’t even be a little nice and show some gratitude.”

His comments were clearly directed at Hawke, who replied with a derisive laugh. “If you’ve ever done a day of honest work in your life, I’ll eat my boots.”

The man chuckled without humor, his face twisted in an ugly grin. “I can think of better things to stuff in your mouth,” he leered.

Hawke was unfazed. “I can eat yours too, if you like. Though I simply must warn you that Aveline would probably skin you alive if you were an _actual_ City Guard and you showed up for inspection in those filthy things.”

The man made a disgusting noise and spat on the ground. “That Fereldan cunt thinks she can run our city. She’s next on our list. But you first.” He smirked, adjusting his grip on his sword. “Your knife ear friend here can watch while we have our fun with you. Maybe we’ll let him have a turn, if he asks nice like.”

Fenris caught the flicker in Hawke’s eye and tensed as she unobtrusively reached into her pocket. Suddenly the air was thick with smoke. Fenris leapt forward and swung his blade in a wide arc, but his reflexes were just a hair slower than usual and he knew he’d missed the ringleader, though his blade slashed through the flesh of two others, judging by the screams. The man was fast, whatever else he was.

Hawke darted past him and managed to stab the already wounded men with a few lightning quick strikes, but clearly her reactions had also been dulled by the whiskey; not by much, but enough that her blades had lost their normally razor-sharp precision. And she had no armor. Fenris only had a moment to process this before he was beset with blades on all sides. For a few frenzied moments it was all he could do to fend off the torrent of blows, the clang of metal against metal ringing in his ears as he parried and countered more through instinct than anything else.

Suddenly Fenris sensed a brief pause in the onslaught, and he pushed his advantage by slamming his sword into the ground, channeling the power of his lyrium markings through the weapon. A ripple of energy pushed outwards, staggering a good number of the men and causing them to stumble backwards. He saw Hawke whipping through them, a barely visible blur shrouded in smoke. Her blades darted in and out of flesh and skin with ease, and men fell to their knees, clutching their wounds as they cursed in pain and shock. Fenris had seen her do this countless times, and he had always implicitly trusted her speed and accuracy, keeping his focus on the battle at hand. But all he could think about was her exposed torso with nothing but a flimsy layer of fabric between her skin and a blade. And then the ringleader of the men was moving past him, aiming to pummel Hawke with his lifted shield as her foot faltered for just a heartbeat on a slippery cobblestone. There was no finesse or skill in Fenris’s next move, only desperation; he recklessly leapt, abandoning his blade to shove Hawke unceremoniously to the ground, catching the edge of the shield against his shoulder and gracelessly stumbling to one knee. He only had a second to acknowledge to himself that it had been a stupid move before the false guard captain deftly swung his shield once more, catching him in the head with a sickening crunch.

***

Hawke felt her stomach lurch as Fenris crumpled to the ground. Most of the men she had managed to incapacitate after they’d been staggered off balance by the aftershock of his attack. Some of them seemed to have been scared off, fleeing into the night. But the ringleader was still there, and he was staring at her with a gleam in his eye, cocksure of his victory.

She risked a glance down at Fenris; he was bleeding from his ear and his face was sickly pale, but he looked like he was breathing. That was all she had time for; she threw herself to the side, barely missing a sword thrust aimed for her heart.

The bastard was fast. He used both his sword and shield as weapons, and it was all she could do to avoid being sliced open or battered to a pulp. A corner of her mind was screaming that Fenris’s life was most likely slipping away right before her eyes, but she couldn’t afford to be distracted.  Her mind was still muddled by the whiskey that she now deeply regretted drinking, and she knew even the smallest mistake could cost both their lives.

A piercing whistle caught her off guard, the ugly sound ringing in her ears and causing her to stumble in confusion. Immediately she found herself knocked flat on her back, unable to breathe and staring at the night sky in panicked terror. The pretender loomed above her, kneeling so that he was straddling her torso, his knees squeezing her ribcage so hard she thought she could hear her bones creaking.

“You don’t fight too bad for a drunken whore,” he chuckled, tossing his sword and shield aside to pin her arms to the ground with his hands. “You’re welcome to keep trying. In fact, I hope you do.”

Hawke closed her eyes and took a breath. She knew what she had to do, and there was no point in agonizing about it. The inevitability of the situation brought on an odd calmness. The pretender guard captain mistook her sudden serenity for surrender and grinned unpleasantly. “That’s a bit disappointing. I thought you had more fight in you than—”

The sudden blast of psychic energy caught him completely by surprise. knocking him back several paces into a clumsy heap on the ground. Hawke scrambled ungracefully to her feet, still gasping for breath but with a deadly focus on her target. She stretched out her hand, and a bolt of white light hit the man squarely in the chest. He screamed soundlessly, more from shock than actual pain, but Hawke wasn’t about to let him recover. She was already moving towards him, daggers in either hand, and while he was still reeling she swiftly drew her daggers in an X across his throat. The force of her attack nearly severed his head from his neck. He fell backwards with a hard crash, blood spurting generously onto the cobblestones.

Hawke barely waited to see him fall before she rushed to Fenris’s side, whispering his name over and over again as she touched his face with shaking hands. He was still breathing, but his breaths were shallow, and blood trickled from his nose and ears. She knew with a certainty that he was dying.

 _Anders could save him_. But Anders was leagues away in Darktown. She had no healing potions on her; she foolishly had thought she wouldn’t need them, thinking that a night in Hightown would not lead to anything that would require healing… or armor for that matter. And Fenris was now paying for her stupidity.

Her magic was weak; she had never cared to work towards strengthening it beyond the minimum needed for the most basic of spells. But she knew how to heal. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to heal Fenris completely, but she was certain she could pull him back from the brink of death. But she felt frozen with indecision, her hands hovering over his face. _He will never forgive me for this. This will be the end._ End of what? She didn’t know, and now she would never know. Whatever they could have had, she would never know it now.

She bit her lip hard. _Stop being such a stupid bint, Marian Hawke. Better that he lives to hate you, as long as he lives._ She pressed her hands against his cheeks, closed her eyes, and concentrated.

Her magic was so weak, and the two previous spells had taken a lot out of her. She felt her mediocre power trickling through her hands into his body, and strained to open herself to the Fade as much as she could, pulling the energy into herself and channeling it back into Fenris. She could feel the strength draining from her body, but she gritted her teeth and held on desperately, allowing the magic to permeate her senses. She couldn’t deny the pleasure of release she felt, of the perverse satisfaction she experienced whenever she allowed herself to let go and let her magic flow freely, insignificant as it was…

Strong hands wrapped themselves around her wrists, gripping hard enough to make her cry out in pain. She stopped the spell to see Fenris staring up at her, his eyes like two emerald shards. He threw her violently away from him, scrambling to his feet and reaching for his sword. She tried to push herself upright, scraping her palms against the rough cobblestones. The healing had taken the last of her strength, and her limbs felt like rubber.

“ _Witch._ ”

Hawke tried not to flinch at the venom dripping from his voice. “I just saved your life.” She inwardly cringed at how her voice trembled. She clutched the nearest wall to pull herself to her feet. “You would be dead if I hadn’t healed you.”

Fenris acted as if he hadn’t heard her. He was still staring, and she couldn’t meet his gaze. “I… trusted you. You were lying to me. From the moment we met…”

She could see he wasn’t yet at full strength. The healing had stopped him from dying, but he was swaying on his feet, disoriented, his face contorted into a grimace of pain. She leaned against the wall, trying to pitch her voice to be low and calming, but the words seemed to spill out of her at a frantic pace. “I’m sorry, Fenris. I am. It wasn’t just you. No one knows outside of my own family. I never wanted this, you have to believe me.”

“Was it your magic all along then?” Fenris spat viciously through clenched teeth. “Were you using blood magic, witch, trying to charm me, to ensnare me to do your bidding?”

Hawke felt an overwhelming surge of anger rush through her at his words, filling her with adrenaline. “Don’t be a fucking prick!” she snarled back at him, and he seemed startled by her outburst. “You know my feelings on blood magic. You’ve been fighting at my side for months now; am I a blood mage? You tell me!”

Fenris was not appeased by this; he laughed wildly, the sound dark and brittle. “If there is a Maker, he must be laughing himself sick over this irony. I thought I had been saved from Danarius, but I just exchanged one vile magister for another. How would I know if you’ve been using your magic on me or not? Do you think Danarius always announced his intentions before casting his spells on me?”

“I swear on my family name, there was no magic involved between us.” Hawke felt despair and rage burning in the back of her throat. But she would kill herself now if she cried. “Unless thinking with your cock is some new school of magic.” Fenris’s face burned at those words, and she pressed her advantage. “If you knew anything about magic, you’d know my spellpower is barely enough to light a candle. If you would just _listen_ to me, you’d realize that I hate my magic almost as much as you do! That’s why you never knew I was a mage; because I never use my magic, you stupid bastard!”

Fenris was silent, and for one heartbeat she dared hope she’d gotten through to him. But then his eyes narrowed. “Does Anders know? Did you lie to my face while all this time he knew the truth?”

Hawke was dumbstruck by his question, and her silence seemed answer enough for Fenris. He looked at her, his eyes brimming with contempt and distrust, then turned away.

“Yes, I’m a fucking mage!” she shouted at him, no longer caring who heard. He froze with his back to her. “You were saved from being dragged back to slavery by a mage. You owe your life and your freedom to a mage. You fucking lusted after a mage! If you truly believe that I am no better than your former master, then maybe I should have let the slavers take you back to him!”

Fenris had her slammed against the wall in the blink of an eye, his fingers digging into her throat, his teeth bared in a snarl. His grip was tight, a hairbreadth away from cutting off her breath. She looked him in the eye, unafraid and with a fury to match his own. She found herself savagely hoping he would tighten his grip. She would shove her dagger right up his kidneys and see what he thought about that. But he seemed to be struggling with himself, conflicting emotions warring on his face. Then he roughly pushed her away from him and turned away once more.

“Stay away from me, witch,” he rasped.

She leaned against the wall, her grief a physical pain heavy in her chest as she watched him stalk into the night. _Well, at least he knows now. That went about as well as I expected. I suppose that means he’s not going to join our expedition then._ She felt a hysterical giggle bubble up in her throat and clenched her teeth against it lest it give way to a flood of tears.


	6. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Bethany have a chat while Hawke is out of town.

It had been almost a week since Fenris had last seen Hawke, and he was running out of things to do to keep his mind preoccupied. He had spent a few days tracking down a small-scale slavers’ ring operating out of the Docks and had relished the task of giving them what they’d deserved, but that hadn’t been much of a challenge. He knew there was always mercenary work available around a city like Kirkwall, but he wasn’t in the mood to run petty errands for lazy nobility or corrupt businessmen.

And so here he was spending this particular afternoon rummaging through the library in his mansion. It was large and well-stocked with books of all shapes and sizes. He couldn’t read any of them, obviously, but he found it oddly soothing to flip through the musty pages, trying to guess from the covers what the books were about. Some of the books even had illustrations. He’d come across a book of maps and found himself lingering on a page that he thought was Antiva, though he couldn’t be sure. That conversation he’d had with Hawke, about running away from Kirkwall and never looking back… he still remembered how her face had lit up at the ridiculous fantasy they’d come up with. The memory of her amber eyes crinkled with pleasure felt like it was seared into his mind, walking a precarious tightrope between bitter and sweet.

 _She is a lying witch_ , he reminded himself, but the thought had lost the heat of rage that had filled him upon realizing what she was. It seemed like a lifetime ago rather than a mere handful of days.

He had always viewed magic with a distrustful eye, but it hadn’t stopped him from fighting alongside the likes of Merrill and Anders and Bethany. From a purely practical standpoint, it made sense to have a mage on your side, although there were obviously risks – especially with someone like Anders, who was clearly an abomination in every sense of the word as far as Fenris was concerned. But while he was a firm believer that the Circles in Fereldan were a far better way of life than the Magisterium in Tevinter, he’d never once entertained the idea of turning any of the three over to the authorities. Regardless of what he thought of them, they were all bound by a common thread – Hawke. His sense of loyalty to the extraordinary woman who had helped him escape Danarius’s clutches had outweighed his personal antipathy regarding magic and those who wielded it. Little had he known…

She had lied to him from the very beginning, though apparently she’d lied to all of them, not just him. (Except for Anders, for some reason. That still stung, though Fenris refused to contemplate why it bothered him so much.) Now, with some distance, Fenris could grudgingly concede that it was probably sensible on her part to keep her magic a secret, especially in a place like Kirkwall. But he still felt a sharp pang of betrayal whenever he thought about her deception. She knew better than anyone how he felt about magic and mages. Surely she’d owed _him_ the truth.

It hurt more because he had truly desired her, truly had feelings for her. He had wanted to be intimate with her in way he’d never experienced with anyone. But now when he remembered those brief moments of passion, the memories were tainted with the horrible realization of what he’d unwittingly done. He’d made himself vulnerable to someone who had the power to reach into his mind and turn his will against himself. Someone like Danarius.

Had it all been a trick? Had all her blushes and hesitation been coldly calculated, had she been secretly manipulating him with unseen magics, laughing behind those golden eyes all the while? But what had she to gain from doing so? Could it be possible she simply enjoyed secretly humiliating him?

He was suddenly reminded of the first time she’d kissed him on the cheek in The Hanged Man, the same day they’d discovered a woman’s dismembered body in an abandoned warehouse. She’d been so clearly upset; so angry at herself for being too late, so disgusted at what other humans were capable of. And his awkward words to her had somehow had the power to dispel the bitterness in her eyes that day. How could someone fake that? Danarius had manipulated him and humiliated him in many ways… but Fenris had never been deceived into thinking that the magister was anything other than soulless.

 _If magic were always so obvious, it wouldn’t be so dangerous_ , a voice nagged at him.

 _Hawke had plenty of opportunities to toy with you if she’d really wanted to, but she never did,_ another voice insisted.

He realized he’d been staring blankly at the same page for the past few minutes. Not that it mattered; all the pages of indecipherable letters looked identical to his uneducated eyes. He flung the book away from him with a fervent curse.

“Some light reading before dinnertime?” a familiar voice asked from behind.

He turned swiftly, thinking it was Hawke even as he remembered that it couldn’t be her; she was still in the Deep Roads. In the doorway stood Bethany. The younger Hawke did not noticeably resemble her sister; they were of similar height with the same dark hair, but Bethany had blue eyes instead of amber, and in general gave the impression of being paler and softer than her sister. She smiled at Fenris in her usual friendly way, though her hands were twisting nervously at the edge of her cloak.

“Bethany,” he greeted her shortly, hating the irrational disappointment he felt at her presence.

“Fenris,” she replied with a nod. “I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in; I called out but no one answered.

He shrugged, crossing his arms and eyeing her, trying to look neutral. “What do you want?”

She stepped into the room and gingerly sat down on a chair, ignoring his barely concealed hostility. “I came to say farewell, actually.”

Fenris blinked, caught off-guard. “Farewell? Are you leaving Kirkwall?”

Bethany’s smile wavered a bit as she dropped her eyes. “Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. Tomorrow I’ll be joining the Circle in the Gallows.”

Fenris couldn’t help but stare at her in disbelief, all pretense of disinterest gone. “The Circle?” he repeated. “What in the name of the Maker are you talking about?”

Bethany sighed and chewed on her lip for a moment as she seemed to be pondering what to say. The gesture was so Hawke-like that Fenris had to look away, lest his face betray him.

“Knight-Captain Cullen came to the house yesterday,” she said finally. “He was very polite and even seemed a bit regretful, but he made it clear that I was going to be escorted to the Gallows, and the only choice I had in the matter was between going willingly or unwillingly. He implied that the latter would end… badly.”

Fenris suddenly recalled how upset Hawke had been when Anders’s companion had been made Tranquil. He looked at Bethany, who was still staring at the floor, not meeting his eyes. Her face was paler than usual, but her voice was steady, and she showed no other signs of emotion.

“How did he learn you’re a mage?” was all he could think to ask.

Bethany laughed a little. “Who knows who told him? Marian was always doing to her best to keep me away from the Templars’ attention, but… she’s made a lot of enemies, and being her sister probably paints a target on my back as much as it protects me. I will say that Cullen seemed rather unhappy about the whole thing, and… shall we say, somewhat apprehensive about how Marian will react once she finds out.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t drag you off in chains on the spot.”

“Cullen was kind enough to allow me two days to… prepare myself. I promised I’d turn myself in tomorrow morning to avoid a fuss.” She looked up and met Fenris’s eyes, and he was startled to see how unflinchingly she looked at him. Maybe she wasn’t as different from her sister as he’d thought. “I’m surprised, Fenris. I thought you’d be pleased.”

He felt a strange mix of discomfort and shame, though he wasn’t sure why. “I did not betray you to the Templars, if that’s what you are thinking.”

Bethany’s eyebrows shot up briefly. “Actually, no, I never thought that.”

There was a brief silence. Fenris found himself shifting from foot to foot, unsure what to say. Should he offer his condolences? When all was said and done, Bethany was a mage, and mages were dangerous. The Circle was the best place for them, for their own safety and the safety of others. So why did he feel so uncomfortable meeting her eyes, as if he were somehow to blame for her impending confinement? And the thought of the look on Hawke’s face when she learned of Bethany’s fate… why did he still care about the woman who’d betrayed him?

“Marian really cares about you, you know.” Bethany said casually, as if she were continuing an ongoing conversation. “Honestly, I don’t know why, and I wish she didn’t. She has enough self-loathing to deal with without having to care about what a narrow-minded, self-absorbed arse like you thinks about her.”

Fenris felt his eyebrows climb into his scalp at mild-mannered Bethany hurling invectives at him, but she clearly wasn’t finished talking. “I don’t pretend to know what you went through in Tevinter with that horrible man who was your master, but surely at this point you must understand that not all mages are like him, least of all my sister.”

“If she truly cared, she wouldn’t have lied to me,” Fenris muttered, half under his breath.

Bethany huffed in disbelief. “You must be joking. She was terrified, Fenris. She thought you would spit in her face, leave Kirkwall if you knew.”

“I can’t believe she would care if I left Kirkwall after our last… conversation.”

“You idiot.” Bethany made an exasperated sound. “Danarius would have you smuggled back into Tevinter the minute you left the city walls.”

Fenris blinked, feeling uncomfortably foolish. For some reason he’d never considered Hawke being concerned for his well-being… particularly after the way they’d parted. But wasn’t he worried about her in the Deep Roads even now, though it pained him to admit it?

Bethany sighed into the silence, looking back down at her hands. “You have to understand, Fenris, Marian has never wanted to be a mage. She’s always been terrified of losing control, so she’s deliberately kept her magic weak. Father was disappointed, but she was as stubborn as he was. She hated the idea that this thing that had been forced upon her was what made her special. She trained with her daggers, because that was something she could control. She only ever learned enough about magic to keep her sane and protected. So her hiding her magic from you – you’re being extremely vain if you’re taking it personally. She never tells anyone about her magic. Not even Aveline knew.”

“Anders knew.” The words escaped him before he could stop himself. Bethany stared at him, and he couldn’t meet her eyes.

“She didn’t tell him, you know.” At that, Fenris did look at her. She shrugged. “She didn’t! He found out, that night at The Blooming Rose.” She glared at him accusingly. “The night she almost cut her own throat? She had no choice but to use her magic to save herself… and you and Anders, I might add.”

A vivid memory of him trapped in his own skin, watching Hawke with the dagger against her neck, sent shivers down his spine. “Why are you telling me all this?”

Bethany dropped her gaze, looking tired. “When Marian comes back from the Deep Roads… she’s going to blame herself for my situation. And Mother will be no help whatsoever. Mother always finds it easiest to blame Mari for everything. Anyhow… I was hoping _you_ could tell my sister that I blame myself, not her, and that she definitely should not do anything stupid like try to rescue me. Or turn herself in.”

Fenris raised a brow. “Why do you think she will listen to me? We… did not part on good terms.”

“If you truly don’t care about her killing herself trying to storm the Gallows or spending the rest of her life with some Templar lout leering over her every move, then I’ve severely misjudged you.” Bethany shrugged.  

Unbidden, an image of Cullen watching Hawke undress flashed before him, and he realized he was clenching his fists. He willed himself to relax, cursing himself for a fool. Bethany was right; the thought of Hawke locked away in the Gallows, under the thumb of the Templars, was not something he thought he could live with. He looked sideways at Bethany, thinking she seemed remarkably calm considering she was facing what amounted to a lifetime prison sentence.

“You seem rather at peace with your fate,” he observed carefully.

Bethany gave him a half-smile. “In some strange way it is a relief, though it pains me to admit it to you of all people. No more hiding, no more looking over my shoulder. And… I’ve always been a burden to Mari, though she’d never say so.” She looked off into the distance, her eyes filled with emotion. “I tried to tell myself she needed me to guard her back, but really she was always the one protecting me. Maybe it’s better this way. The worst has already happened.”

Fenris was a little surprised to realize he was feeling somewhat concerned about Hawke’s younger sister fatalistic attitude. “You being captured by the Templars was certainly something Hawke always feared, but … there are worse things.”

Bethany laughed a little. “It’s kind of you to worry, Fenris, though a little… unexpected?” Her eyes narrowed a bit. “Isn’t that what you think would be best for mages? Would you like my sister better if she were Tranquil?”

He remembered Karl’s flat eyes; his calm, emotionless voice. He tried to imagine Hawke’s eyes, her lioness eyes, stripped of all their light, two empty pools of amber staring coolly back at him. The thought was like a cold shard of ice in his gut.

Abruptly he realized Bethany was looking at him, and if her face wasn’t so pleasant and guileless, Fenris would have described her expression as smug. But she smiled at him with sincerity, and he wondered if he’d imagined it. “I’m not a complete idiot, Fenris, and I have no desire to become Tranquil nor to be parted with my head. I will give the Templars no reason to do either. And I think that Cullen will be eager to make sure I am happy as a Circle mage can be. The last thing he wants is to give Marian an excuse to start an open conflict with the Templars.” Her smile became a little mischievous. “Mari is very good at making herself a pain in the arse when she wants to be.”

If that wasn’t the Maker’s own truth, he didn’t know what was. He felt Bethany’s eyes on him, searching, and he felt as if were being measured being found wanting. He wasn’t sure what to tell her. Speaking with her had forced him to grudgingly admit to himself that he wasn’t ready to cut Hawke out of his life. In fact, he was already regretting letting his temper get the better of him that last night he saw her since it had resulted in her going off to the Deep Roads without him. With that accursed abomination of a mage. But he wasn’t sure he could pick up the thread of… whatever their relationship had been developing into. The thought of trusting a mage like that, of making himself vulnerable to someone who potentially had the power to dig into his mind and sift through all his secrets… even though now, rationally, he knew Hawke would never do that to him, the mere possibility tightened his stomach with fear and loathing.

“I… will make sure your sister does not do anything foolish,” he said slowly. “Beyond that, I cannot say.”

“Fair enough.” Bethany extended a hand, and Fenris reflexively took it. She clasped it briefly but firmly before letting go. “I will trust you to keep your word, Fenris.”

She turned to leave. “Bethany…” Fenris called out, then paused, unsure of what he wanted to say. She looked at him expectantly.

“Maker watch over you,” he finally told her awkwardly, meeting her eyes with some effort.

She smiled, her eyes shadowed. “And you, too, Fenris.”

He sat down, listening to her walk down the staircase, hearing the front door open and shut. Hawke was going to be absolutely devastated when she returned. What could he possibly say to persuade her that disemboweling Knight-Captain Cullen was not a good idea? Why did Bethany think that he, of all people, would be able to calm Hawke down? The mere sight of him would probably be enough to send her over the edge. Seeing Hawke wasn’t likely to be good for his own equilibrium either.

Well, either he would succeed in making her see sense or she’d probably burn down half of Kirkwall to get her sister back. There was no use in worrying about it until she came back.

If she came back. He couldn’t deny the fact that life might be a lot easier if Hawke perished in the Deep Roads. But that thought turned his stomach even more than the possibility of her starting a war with the Templars.


	7. The Deep Roads Expedition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is faced with traitorous business partners and irate companions in the Deep Roads.

“So, here I am, back in the Deep Roads… of my own volition, no less… trapped here by a mad man – excuse me, dwarf – facing death by either starvation or Darkspawn… whose idea was this again?”

“Yours.” Hawke replied in a completely unapologetic tone as she studied the stone walls.

Anders gaped. “Excuse me?”

“You’re the one who volunteered to come. Against your own advice, I might add.” Hawke’s laughter was wild and brittle, just this side of unhinged. “You really need to listen to yourself more often, Anders.”

“Well, I’m glad someone finds this amusing.” Aveline’s voice was carefully even, though her arms were crossed a little too tightly across her chest. “Because really, if you can’t see the humorous side of being eaten alive by Darkspawn, what is the point of even living?” She whirled around to pin Varric with her best glare. “And if you say anything about getting a good quote for your book, I will bash you over the head with my shield and see if you can find the humor in _that_.”

Varric raised his hands defensively. “Wasn’t going to say anything.”

“That _would_ be a first.” Hawke whirled around on her heel to face her friends. “Well, I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that we have limited options. And when I say limited I mean one.” She pointed to a small door carved into the opposite wall. “That’s the only other entrance in.”

Anders rubbed his chin. “It looks like it might lead deeper into the thaig.”

“It probably does.” Hawke agreed. “But it’s the only way out of this room. We’ll just have to hope that it eventually connects with another tunnel that leads aboveground.”

Aveline uncrossed her arms and straightened. “Right, there’s no point in wasting time discussing it, then. We should press on. Maker watch over us.”

“Yes, Maker, you have done a _shit_ job of it so far,” Hawke clasped her hands as if in prayer as Aveline threw her shoulder into the heavy stone door. “Please wake the fuck up and bloody watch over us. Isn’t that your job?”

“Er, I wouldn’t call myself the most devout of Andrastrians,” Varric said cautiously as the door creaked open. “But now doesn’t seem like the best time to piss off the powers that be.”

Anders barked a humorless laugh. “I don’t see how our situation could possibly…”

“Don’t you dare say it, Blondie.” Varric pointed a finger at Anders for emphasis. “I’ve written enough stories to know what the phrase ‘tempting fate’ means in terms of plot development.”

***

Hawke held her hands to the fire and tried to remember if she’d ever had a more stressful day in her life. The memory of Fenris hissing _witch_ at her was a pain still sharp enough to make her flinch. Still, if one was being objective, getting cursed at by an angry elf (even one you’d been wanting to shag for ages) was probably slightly less traumatic than being left to die in an ancient dwarven thaig, fighting off bizarre creatures made of solid stone, having to choose between making a deal with a demon and possible death, then battling said demon to the death after politely saying, “no thank you.” And if all of that weren’t enough…

“ _Hawke_.” Aveline was looming behind her, and while Hawke couldn’t see her face she could feel the anger radiating off her friend like a palpable heat.

“Yes?” she replied, turning to look up at her friend with wide eyes, trying her best to look pathetic.

The Captain of the City Guard was not to be thus placated. “I saw you during the battle. You used _magic._ ” She pointed an accusing finger at Hawke. “You are a bloody _mage_.”

Varric was still poking at the fire, trying to encourage it to burn hotter, but at Aveline’s accusation he paused and looked at Hawke. For once in his life his face was set in serious lines, and somehow that hurt Hawke more than Aveline’s accusatory tone. “Why did you lie to us, Hawke? All this time? You didn’t trust us?”

Hawke lowered her eyes, feeling her cheeks grow hot with emotion. She drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them, staring into the fire to avoid looking at her friends. “I trust you with my life,” she said in a quiet voice, and meant it with all her heart. “It wasn’t about you at all. I just… don’t like being a mage very much. I thought if I never actually used my magic, it meant I didn’t have to be one.”

Anders let out a loud breath but held his tongue, though the look he shot Hawke was heavy with disapproval. Varric let out a huff of begrudging amusement. “Well, I have to give you credit – your plan worked pretty well. If someone had told me you were a mage before today I’d have said that was too preposterous even for my stories.”

Aveline knelt down next to Hawke, and Hawke felt compelled to meet her gaze. Her bright green eyes were still narrowed in anger and… something else. “Tell me truly, Hawke,” Aveline said in a low voice. “Did you hold back your magic the first time we met for your own selfish reasons? Could you have saved Wesley? Or your own brother?”

Hawke recoiled as if Aveline had slapped her. “Aveline!”

“Tell me!”

Hawke swallowed. “I don’t know, Aveline. My magic is… pathetic. You’ve seen for yourself; I barely use it, I have almost no experience with it. I can tell you honestly… nothing I could have done would have saved either of them. But… maybe if I’d… listened to my father… if I’d been less of a coward and trained properly…”

She stopped talking, feeling her throat close up with sadness, regret, anger, shame. Rationally she’d told herself – Bethany had been there as well, and she _had_ trained with her father to become a competent mage – she hadn’t been able to do anything either. But she could never quite silence the voice of doubt inside of her. _You were supposed to take care of your family. Bethany has always been softer than you; if you’d just trained the way your father wanted you to, your magic could have succeeded where hers failed._

“Hawke.”

Aveline’s hand was on her shoulder. Hawke blinked and looked at her friend. The anger in her friend’s eyes had fled, leaving only a pain that cut Hawke to her core. “I’m… sorry. Wesley was a Templar; I know all the reasons why someone born with magic would rather pretend they hadn’t been. It was an unworthy question. Forgive me.”

Hawke impulsively threw her arms around Aveline and clutched her with all her might. Aveline stiffened at first in surprise, but after a moment she put her own arms around Hawke and held her close. “I’ll allow it this once, Hawke, seeing as we just narrowly escaped with our lives and may still die down here anyway.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hawke found herself laughing and crying all at once as she clutched her friend like a lifeline, taking comfort in her strong, accepting embrace. When was the last time she had been held and comforted? Her parents had never been prone to hugging, not with her anyway, and with Bethany it had always been the other way around – Hawke had always been the one comforting her sister. Fenris… she slammed a mental wall down on that thought lest she dissolve into floods of tears. “You know I’ll have to kill you after this, Aveline; I can’t risk ruining my reputation as a murderous psychopath stalking the streets of Kirkwall.”

“Luckily you have me to take care of that for you,” Varric remarked in his usual tone of dry amusement, which lifted Hawke’s spirits immensely. “This hug will become a bloody fight to the death, and one of you will be left for Darkspawn bait so the rest of us can survive.”

Aveline gently disentangled herself from Hawke and gave her hands a firm squeeze before letting go. “Eating someone as contrary as Hawke would give the poor hurlocs indigestion.”

Anders offered Hawke a mostly clean handkerchief, which she accepted gratefully. She could sense him eyeing her as she wiped her face. “You’ve been more emotional than usual, Hawke. Did something happen in Kirkwall before we left?”

Hawke blew her nose and gave him her best glare, fiercely willing him to stop talking. “We’ve just been betrayed by Varric’s own brother and fought off a crazy rock demon. I think I have some right to be a little emotional, thank you very much.”

“Wait a minute.” Varric looked suspiciously at Anders. “Why isn’t Blondie surprised? Did you tell him and not us?”

“Jealous, Varric?” Anders grinned as Hawke sputtered a denial. “I wish I could flatter myself, but she didn’t tell me anything; I found out by accident.”

“What about the others?” Aveline demanded. “Do they know?”

Hawke fell silent, remembering the hatred and betrayal etched on Fenris’s face. “Fenris knows,” she said softly. “He also… found out by accident. Isabella and Merrill don’t. Not yet, anyway. At this point there is no point in keeping it from them, I suppose.”

“So the elf knows!” Anders threw his hands up in the air, completely oblivious to Hawke’s pained expression. “Is that why he bailed on you last minute?”

“Shut up, Blondie,” Varric muttered, seeing Hawke’s pale face.

Aveline was sitting next to Hawke by the fire, and her eyes were narrowed thoughtfully. “I would guess he took it harder than the rest of us, considering his… personal feelings… on magic. But whatever else he is, Hawke, he is loyal, and he owes you a debt. He won’t turn you in to the Templars.”

Hawke made a noncommital noise as she stared into the flames. She didn’t think Fenris would do that either, but… well, she wasn’t sure _what_ Fenris would do. Would he even still be there when they returned? Would he have left Kirkwall only to be re-captured by Danarius’s minions? Could he be halfway to Tevinter by now? The thought of him back in chains, magically brainwashed into submission made her feel physically sick. _He wouldn’t even want you to rescue him, though. He thinks you’re just as bad as Danarius, remember? Marian Hawke, equal to a sadistic Tevinter magister on the grand scale of things. How proud Father would be._

Varric rubbed his hands together. “Well, Hawke, if it makes you feel any better, if we managed to avoid getting slaughtered by darkspawn you’ll be rich enough to bribe the Templars to leave you alone, like any normal person in Kirkwall would do.”

Hawke forced a laugh. “Yes, and wasn’t there something about you parading around in Isabella’s boots?”

Varric snorted. “Let’s not go crazy, Hawke. I saw the treasure too, remember? You might have enough to commission a well-written description for your personal pleasure.”

“However shall I live with my disappointment?” Hawke laughed again, this time with genuine feeling. The thought of Fenris was still a sharp pain in her ribs, but here in the dark, surrounded by friends, she felt both safe and accepted for the first time since she’d left Lothering. How ironic that she felt better about herself in the depths of the Deep Roads than within the walls of Kirkwall.


	8. Finding Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Fenris, round two.

Hawke stood in the middle of the empty hallways, staring blankly at the dusty red velvet carpet, the polished oak wood paneling on the walls, the faded oil paintings of sweeping landscapes hanging in their elegant frames, all without really seeing any of it. She was remembering the last time she’d been there. It had been in the middle of the night, and she and Bethany had snuck in with the intention of stealing their grandparent’s will from the estate’s treasury. It had been a stupidly risky thing to do, but both of them had been too excited by the idea that they might discover something that could get them out of Lowtown, away from the questionable mercenary work Athenril had them doing to pay off their debt. That was the night they had found their grandparents’ will, the one that had named Leandra their heir and revealed how their uncle had squandered the family fortune on gambling and prostitutes. Was that a year or a lifetime ago?

Hawke had done so, so many things in that year that she would never have thought herself capable of before coming to Kirkwall. She’d told herself that it was for her family, but really it had been for Bethany. Leandra was her mother, but Hawke had never been close to her mother – or her father, for that matter – the way her siblings had been. For as long as she could remember, her mother had treated her as a third parent rather than a child. _You’re the eldest, I expect better from you_ had been the refrain of her childhood. She’d grown up with many resentments against her parents, but oddly enough, never against her siblings. Carver had always been prickly and rebellious, but she’d understood, once she was older, that he saw her as his rival: someone he was always competing against. She’d found it equal parts annoying, amusing, and flattering. And Bethany… Bethany was always wanting to do whatever she did, whether that was sneaking out at night to sample some ale or flirting with the older boys in the village square. And of course, she had wanted to follow Hawke into the Deep Roads. Leandra had railed against it, but Hawke’s decision to leave Bethany behind had had little to do with her mother. It was because she – Hawke – had gone into the Deep Roads knowing that dying down there was a distinct possibility. Some small, secret part of her might have been perversely hoped for death. At least it would have been an honorable death – more honorable than getting her throat slit in a Darktown alley, which had always been a daily possibility in Kirkwall. At any rate, it wasn’t a fate she’d been particularly willing to share with her sister. And then there was the problem of fighting with one hand tied behind her back, which had always been the case when she was fighting with Bethany at her side – she could never fully focus on the battle with her sister nearby. So she’d convinced Bethany to stay in Kirkwall in the belief that it was the best way to ensure they both survived long enough to enjoy living in this fancy mansion that was supposedly their birthright. _How delightfully ironic this has all turned out to be. This will make for a particularly good chapter in Varric’s book_. Hawke felt her mouth twist with bleak amusement.

She paused in front of an elaborate mirror hanging at one end of the corridor, murky with neglect. With a careless swipe she rubbed off a clear patch, sneezing as the dust filled the air. A face she barely recognized stared back at her. She was never one to spend much time in front of mirrors, and needless to say she hadn’t packed one with her for the Deep Roads expedition. It had been at least a month since she’d seen her reflection. In that time it looked as if she’d aged ten years. Her eyes were underlined with shadows, her cheekbones severe and hollowed. Her lips were pale and chapped, pressed into a thin unhappy line. She didn’t look like a woman who stood up to Templars and slew blood mages. She looked like a woman defeated.

No. She had never been one to roll over and admit defeat, so why was she about to start now? True, Bethany was now in the bowels of a Templar stronghold, guarded day and night. And she, Marian Hawke, was only one of the most notorious mercenaries in Kirkwall who had sassed the Knight Captain countless times to his face. That didn’t mean there _wasn’t_ a way for her to rescue Bethany without getting both of them killed. Or tearing the Gallows to the ground.

 _Who am I fooling? With my magic I’d be lucky if I could pinch Cullen’s arse hard enough for him to blush._ Hawke felt a wave of anger and helplessness surge through her at the thought. Recklessly she channeled her emotions into energy, gathering it up and flinging it towards the mirror with a curse. The mirror cracked into a jagged spiderweb but still held. Enraged, she kicked it squarely in the center, causing it to shatter with a satisfying crack, shards tumbling to the floor.

She suddenly felt the hairs on her neck prickle and she knew she was not alone. Without a second thought she pulled her daggers free and whipped around, eager for a fight.

“And I thought my house was in poor shape,” a familiar voice remarked. “This one makes mine look rather charming.”

Hawke stared in disbelief. She relaxed her stance a fraction, daggers still unsheathed. “Fenris?”

He stood at the end of the hall, outlined by the bits of sunlight filtering in through the gaps in the curtains, his lyrium markings glowing faintly in the shadows. It felt like it had been a lifetime since they’d last met. Her throat tightened with a roil of complicated emotions. Rage, sadness, trepidation, desire. She swallowed, willing her voice not to tremble, and her words came out harsher than she’d intended. “What the bloody hell are you doing here, Fenris?”

“I made a promise to your sister that I would see you when you returned.”

She took a few steps towards him, then made herself stop. “You spoke to Bethany? Before the Templars took her?” Hawke felt a wild laugh escape her. “I don’t believe you. Why would she come to you?” A thought struck her, and her hands tightened around her daggers. “Did you lead them to her?”

Fenris bristled at the suggestion, drawing himself up. “No. I still owe you a debt, Hawke, and Bethany is your blood.”

“She’s a filthy witch, and so am I.” Hawke barked a humorless laugh. “Or have you changed your mind since we last spoke?”

Fenris was silent for a few moments. There was a considerable distance between them, and the dim light made it difficult for her to read his face. “I… owe you an apology,” he said finally.

Hawke wasn't sure she had heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”

He let out a quiet breath and spoke in a measured tone. “The last time we spoke… I hope you realize that I was blindsided by your… revelation. I made accusations out of fear. They were groundless accusations, and unfair to you. I am sorry for that.”

Hawke was rendered speechless for a few moments. “I… Well. This is… unexpected.” She tried to hide her surprise behind a flippant comment, finally sliding her daggers back into her sheaths. “To be honest, Fenris, I was expecting you to be disappointed I’d come back at all.”

He shifted, and his tattoos seemed to glow with more intensity. “I am not a monster, Hawke. After you left for the Deep Roads… I regretted the way we parted. And your sister made me see that… I had been wrong to behave the way I did.” Hawke could see the outline of his lean muscles and sharp jawline, and even now she ached to walk up to him and take his hand in hers. But she held herself very still, waiting for him to finish. “I still have a debt to repay, and I will repay it.”

“I see.” Her voice was deliberately flat. She didn’t want him to think he still had the power to hurt her. “Is that all?”

“That is all I can offer you, Hawke.” His voice was cold and emotionless, and she pressed her lips together, afraid she would say the wrong thing. “I… cannot pretend that the thought of magic doesn’t still make my skin crawl, Hawke. I know you are nothing like the magisters that made my life a torment… but that doesn’t change the fact that the same magic is still in your blood, under your skin. I cannot… be with someone whose very nature reminds me of the pain I have suffered at the hands of evil men.”

“Then leave!” Hawke snapped, unable to contain her outrage any longer. “I don’t need a companion I can’t trust at my back. How am I to know you won’t one day deliberately slow your sword hand and let a dagger through my guard so you can rid the world of one more evil witch?”

“You misunderstand me, Hawke.” Fenris took a few steps towards her, then stopped, as if he were reluctant to come any closer. “ _Venhedis_ , do you think this is easy for me? I cannot erase my past, no matter how hard I wish it.” He thrust his hand toward her, and his markings glimmered in the shadows. His voice was harsh with pain. “It is etched into my very skin.”

He let his hand fall and took a breath, as if trying to center himself. “But I still owe you a debt, and so I will continue to fight at your side as your ally.” He shook his head. “Do not ask any more of me, Hawke.”

Hawke choked on something between a laugh and a sob. “Well, when you ask me so nicely, how can I refuse?” She felt a stabbing in her heart so sharp she could barely breathe, and suddenly nothing seemed to matter anymore. Bethany snatched away from her, and Fenris apparently so disgusted by what she was that he couldn’t bear to touch her. “I’m not going to ask a single thing from you, Fenris, so you needn’t worry. Consider yourself freed from your debt. You can take yourself back to Tevinter or the Void itself for all I care.”

She’d expected some kind of reaction from him, but he was as still as a statue in the shadows. “What are you planning, Hawke?”

“It’s no business of yours.” Her voice was so full of venom she barely recognized herself in it. “You can see yourself out, I’m sure.”

Hawke turned on her heel and made to walk away, but suddenly he was next to her, blocking her path. “Hawke.”

She pointed a finger at him, amber eyes suddenly burning golden with raw fury. “ _No_. You do not get to have a say in my life anymore, Fenris.”

She made to push past him, but he grabbed her wrist and held it in an iron grip. She tried to wrench herself free, but he was implacable. He spoke to her in a voice tight with controlled anger. “Do you really think you can storm the Gallows on your own, Hawke? You and what army? You are a formidable woman, but not even you can stand against a thousand Templars.”

“Just because _you_ won’t aid me doesn’t mean there aren’t those who will.” Her free hand darted for one of her daggers, but he had clearly anticipated this and caught her wrist in mid-air.

“None of the others will agree to this madness and you well know it, Hawke.” Fenris’s eyes narrowed. “Unless… you truly are insane, Hawke, if you are thinking of encouraging the madness of that abomination of a mage you insist on keeping at your side. He will end up on the gallows – the _real_ gallows, and drag you down with him. Do you think that’s what your sister wants?”

“Don’t you dare try to tell me about my own sister!” Hawke spat, trying desperately to twist herself free of Fenris. With an effort she stopped herself, cursing. It was a futile gesture, and struggling just made it more humiliating. _I could make him free me._ The thought crossed her mind like the slash of a well-honed blade, but even now in the grips of her rage, she knew she couldn’t use her magic against him. _He already looks at me with contempt; it can’t get any worse…_ and yet the thought of seeing that look of fear and disgust in his eyes once more broke her heart.

She felt hot tears streaming down her cheeks, and her sense of humor, infuriatingly reliable even in the midst of all this despair, had to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, her standing in the middle of this rundown old mansion contemplating what she knew was tantamount to a suicide mission, being restrained by a fugitive elf who thought she was little better than an abomination but for some reason was determined to save her from herself. Fenris and his stubborn sense of honor. He was going to repay his debt if it killed them both, clearly.

***

Fenris slowly let go of Hawke’s wrists, watching her warily as she slumped against the wall behind her, sinking slowly to the ground. She had been so full of anger just a moment ago that he was almost certain she would try to use her magic against him. He had been steeling himself, but then it was as if all the anger had suddenly drained out of her, and she was no longer trying to fight him. Her amber eyes had overflowed with tears, but she wept soundlessly, her face blank, as if she weren’t even aware she was crying at all.

He looked down at her, his mind gripped with uncertainty, though he was careful to maintain his usual stony expression lest his face betray him. How was he going to stop Hawke from doing something there was no coming back from? He had always known it wouldn’t be easy, but now, confronted with the reality of a defeated Hawke weeping silently at his feet, he felt frozen with something close to panic. What could he do to stop her, short of tying her hand and foot and throwing her in the basement? Would she listen to Aveline or Varric, perhaps? But no, he couldn’t leave her like this; Maker only knew what havoc she could wreak in the meantime. For a brief moment he even contemplated tying her up and slinging her over his shoulder, but he knew he’d probably end up having to fight off the City Guard en masse before he could get her anywhere near Aveline.

He knelt down beside her, taking a moment to study her face. The tears streamed steadily down her cheeks, but her eyes were far away. This was the first time he’d seen her since they last parted. Varric had filled him in on what had happened in the Deep Roads, and the tale of Bartrand’s treachery had made his blood run cold. His first impulse had been to take his anger out on Varric – surely he should have known, the man had been his _brother_ – but Varric had made some cutting remarks on Fenris cowardly abandoning Hawke when she’d needed him the most, and that had cut deep. But the shadows under her eyes and the hollows in her pale cheeks hurt him more than anything Varric had said. He’d already failed her once. And even though he knew he couldn’t be with her the way he’d once so desperately wanted, he still wasn’t prepared to sit back and watch her throw her life away in vain.

“Bethany is not dead, Hawke.” He spoke in as gentle a voice as he knew how.

“She might as well be.” Hawke replied dully.

“Don’t be a fool.” Fenris spoke more forcefully, and was relieved when Hawke blinked and looked at him through her tears. “Hawke, you must be rational. Cullen knows who Bethany is; she’s not a random stray mage the Templars just happened to snatch up. He at least is certainly not a fool. He knows who you are and what you are capable of. It is in his best interest to keep her alive and well. And… from what we have seen of him, I do not think he is an evil man.”

“A cage is still a cage, no matter how nice your captors are about it,” Hawke said bitterly.

“Do you remember the mage we tried to rescue?” Fenris was deliberately blunt, though it hurt him to see Hawke flinch at the memory of Karl. “Cullen will do his best to see Bethany comes to no harm, but if you openly start a war with the Templars, she will lose his protection. What do you think will happen to her then, in the Gallows surrounded by the enemy?”

Hawke’s mouth thinned into a line. “Then I will give myself up to the Templars. At least then she won’t be alone.”

Fenris clenched his fists against the urge to grab Hawke by the shoulders and forcibly shake some sense into her. “Cullen won’t be able to protect both of you, Hawke. Your presence is the Gallows would do nothing but paint a target on Bethany’s back. And do you really think you’ll be able to resign yourself to a life behind walls? You will inevitably try to plan an escape with your sister, and your attempts will get you both executed. Or worse.”

Hawke stared at him, her red-rimmed eyes suddenly hard and sharp. He felt the scrutiny of her gaze but forced himself to meet it without flinching. “Why do you care, Fenris, whether I kill myself trying to tear the Gallows down with my bare hands or end up becoming a mindless thrall to Knight-Captain Cullen?” Her voice was cold and precise, like a bare blade freshly whetted. “Do you still think yourself in my debt? You’ve saved my life more times than I can count, Fenris, I think that more than makes up for any debt between us. And frankly I can’t think of any reason why I would listen to a man who sees me as only one step above a sadistic Tevinter magister.” She carelessly wiped the tears from her face and scrambled to her feet, turning away from him and starting to walk away before he’d realized what she was doing. “Go enjoy your freedom, Fenris. I’m sure all of this will seem like little more than a bad dream before too long.”

He leapt to his feet and made to catch her arm, but she was ready for him this time and easily avoided his grasp with a graceful twist, as if they were simply going through the steps of a ballroom dance. He hadn’t expected that. Then he saw a glint of metal and just barely avoided the edge of her dagger, aimed towards the exposed skin on his upper arm. Instinctively his hand went for his sword, but he quickly caught himself with a curse. Hawke was already following up on her failed attack by lunging towards him with her off-hand, but this time instead of trying to dodge he closed the distance between them, knocking her blade aside by catching it on the sharp spikes of his gauntlet. Before she could regain her balance he grabbed her by her shoulders and shoved her against the wall, harder than he’d intended.

“Do you think I haven’t tried to walk away from this cursed cesspool of a city?” he snarled, his face only inches from hers. She stared at him, her wide eyes caught somewhere between anger and shock. “Do you think I want to squander my hard-won freedom trapped within these four walls with the worst humanity has to offer?”

“Then why don’t you leave?” Hawke snarled back, straining against his grasp like a wounded animal in a trap.

He paused, staring into her fierce golden eyes that somehow, in the short time they had known each other, had managed to pierce the thick armor he had carefully built up around his soul. “I can’t leave you, Hawke.” His voice was low and rough with emotion, dragging the words out of him in ragged tatters.

He felt her grow very still under his hands. “Why?” she whispered.

Fenris bent his head until their foreheads were touching and closed his eyes. He knew he shouldn’t, but for a brief moment he lost himself in the feeling of her closeness, of her smell, her warmth, the uneven rhythm of her breathing in his ear. “Do you think this is easy for me, Marian Hawke?” he muttered, half to himself. “I cannot erase my past. I cannot stop the fear that fills my veins at the thought of magic, the memories of torture, of humiliation, of being treated as a _thing_ to be used however my ma— Danarius wished.” His throat grew tight as he struggled to keep those memories at bay; they rippled under the surface of his consciousness, turning his stomach with disgust and terror. “And yet neither can I deny my feelings for you, Marian Hawke.” He opened his eyes, and the warmth of her amber gaze caused the fog of his fear to dissipate for a precious moment, like mist under the rising sun. “You are a mage,” he grated between clenched teeth, “and part of me still says I should haul you to the Gallows and give you to the Templars myself.” She jerked at those words, but he took her face in his hands, her skin warm and smooth under his calloused fingers, and she froze, staring up at him, barely breathing. “But I would tear the living, beating heart out of every Templar from here to the Frozen Sea before I would let any of them touch you.”

He wanted to press his mouth to hers, to tangle his fingers in her black tresses and feel the softness of her body underneath his own, hear her whimper with desire as he tasted her flesh. But the thought of the magic running under her skin again sent a wave of nausea to roll through his gut, and he could feel the weight of his painful memories threatening to break through and overwhelm him once more. With a curse he pushed himself away from her, feeling caught up in a storm of violent emotions that mercilessly tore him every which way. He took a deep breath and slowly forced a semblance of calm onto himself, pushing down desire and terror both as far down into his mind as he could until there was barely a ripple to be seen.

Hawke was standing against the wall, arms crossed tightly across her chest. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he answered shortly, unable to look at her directly, unsure of what he would see on her face.

“Well, then.” She looked up at the ceiling with a frown. “I… appreciate your honesty, Fenris. Thank you.”

He stole a glance at her. She was deliberately not looking at him, her face arranged into neutral lines. “Does this mean you have given up plotting your own demise?” he demanded.

She met his glare and huffed in wry amusement. “What can I say? You’ve persuaded me with all the sweet nothings you whispered into my ear.”

He felt caught between humor and exasperation, but confined his response to a short nod. She stepped towards him and extended a hand, at the same time carefully keeping a safe distance between them. Her smile seemed to waver for a heartbeat before she managed to make it pleasantly neutral, her eyes bright and unreadable. “Friends, then?”

Fenris clasped her hand and held it for a heartbeat, feeling her small warm fingers trapped within his own. He quickly let go lest his emotions betray him again. “Always, Hawke.”


	9. Forbidden Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years later and not much has changed.

“It’s good to see you again, Lady Amell. My lady.”

Hawke smiled with genuine amusement at the blond Templar as he took Leandra’s extended hand and politely raised it to his lips. Cullen was always the epitome of propriety. She secretly missed the days when he would address her as “Serah Hawke” with a tinge of apprehension in his voice. Nowadays he refused to call her anything but “my lady,” no matter how hard she tried to bait him. “And you as well, Knight-Captain.”

They were standing in Cullen’s office, next to a cheerfully crackling fire. A small table was set with three tea cups and a plate of biscuits. Hawke always marveled at how neat Cullen’s office was despite how busy he always seemed to be; he wore the look of a man who was perpetually harassed by his work. There was very little in his office that wasn’t directly related to his Templar duties, save a table in a corner with a full chess set. The pieces were always in different positions with each visit. _Does he spend all his free time just playing with himself_ _…?_ Hawke pursed her lips in an attempt to contain her childish amusement. Maybe next time she could challenge him to a match. _We could have tea and biscuits and a good natter while we’re at it._  She tried to imagine Cullen lounging in an armchair, making comfortable conversation while sipping tea, and mentally shook her head. It would probably be easier to imagine Meredith dancing a waltz with the First Enchanter.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, Lady Amell, I am happy to say,” Cullen was saying in response to a question her mother had asked, serenely oblivious to Hawke’s scandalous musings. “I hope you have been well.”

“With all the unrest surrounding the Qunari, I must say I am grateful that Bethany is safely out of the way.” Leandra sighed. “At least here, I know you and your men will keep her safe.”

“That is our Maker-given duty towards all our charges,” Cullen reassured her gravely.

Hawke had to make a concerted effort not to roll her eyes. “And I know every single one of your men does their utmost to follow their duties to the absolute letter,” she said sweetly, giving Cullen her most charming grin.

He gave her a sidelong glance but evidently decided he wasn’t going to rise to her bait today. “If you wait here, I will have one of my men escort Bethany to meet you,” he told them stiffly, and then with another bow he left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Leandra gave her daughter a disapproving look. “What good do you think it does to anger the Knight Captain, Marian?”

Hawke tossed her head, refusing to let her mother dampen her mood. “He needs to know that there is at least one person in Kirkwall who isn’t afraid to speak the truth about the Templars.”

“So he can take out his anger on your sister?”

“You don’t know the Knight Captain very well, Mother, if you think him capable of abusing Bethany for such a reason.” Hawke shook her head. “And at any rate, abusing her would only prove that I’m right about the Templars being no better than a group of overgrown bullies. The more he sees how skeptical I am of his Order, the more desperate he becomes to prove me wrong.”

Leandra sighed. “You always have an answer for everything, Marian.”

Hawke shrugged. Ever since Bethany had been taken to the Kirkwall Circle, she and Leandra had managed to come to an uneasy truce. Leandra seemed to finally realize that she herself had been fairly useless ever since they’d left Lothering, and once they’d moved into the estate she’d thrown herself into re-establishing their family as a legitimate member of Kirkwall’s nobility, making social calls and throwing dinner parties. Hawke had been more than happy to leave the political and social maneuvering to her mother, since that was something Hawke neither understood nor cared to understand. Leandra still disapproved of Hawke’s lifestyle, and Hawke knew her mother secretly prayed that her eldest daughter would one day sheathe her daggers for good and marry a respectable nobleman. Ironic, considering Leandra herself had abandoned her family to run away with an apostate mage. But at least Leandra no longer seemed to radiate disappointment and blame quite so openly every time she looked at Hawke, and for that Hawke was grateful. She’d always told herself she hadn’t cared, but that had never been quite true. Leandra was her mother, after all. There was still distance between the two, but there was no longer any open animosity, and Hawke supposed that was the best she could hope for, especially without Bethany there to play peacekeeper.

“Don’t worry, Mother.” Hawke flashed Leandra a grin. “If the Knight Captain deigns to show his face at our home tonight, I won’t breathe a word about the Qunari or the mages. I will make sure to bore him to tears by asking him what he thinks about Lord Mountbatten’s youngest daughter’s recent and most scandalous betrothal to an Antivan merchant prince.”

“I don’t know why you take such pleasure in making the poor man squirm,” Leandra said severely.

“He is adorable when he blushes,” Hawke laughed, cheerfully unrepentant.

A light knock on the door, and Bethany entered. Her dark hair was nearly tied back, and she wore the customary gray robes of the Kirkwall Circle, sedate and unassuming. Hawke greeted her with a fierce hug, which Bethany returned with warmth. “It’s good to see you, Marian. Mother.”

Leandra affectionately kissed her daughter on the cheek. “How are you, my darling?”

They settled themselves around the small table, Bethany pouring tea and excitedly asking her mother about the preparations for the dinner party Leandra had planned for that night. Hawke was silent, watching her sister with a small pang of sadness that even after three years she could never quite get rid of. _It should be her at the dinner party and me in the Circle._ Her sister had always been the one who yearned after silk gowns and silver plates. Yet Bethany seemed happy enough in the Circle – or as happy as any prisoner could manage. Hawke knew her sister had it much easier than many of the other mages, though that by no means meant her sister’s life was perfect. On the rare occasions Hawke managed to visit without Leandra, Bethany would drop veiled hints of the abuse many of the other mages suffered at the hands of the less scrupulous Templars. She had made Hawke swear to secrecy, saying that anything Hawke did or said would only make things worse for the mages in the Gallows.

The worst part of it was that Bethany was most likely right. Cullen did his best to keep his men in line, but he seemed to have a blind spot concerning the Order; any abuse he uncovered, he attributed to a few corrupt individuals rather than a more widespread rot. Bethany was under his personal protection, which could have earned her resentment from her fellow mages, but her natural kindness and good nature meant she had far more friends than enemies. Hawke knew that many of the other mages looked to Bethany for guidance and strength in these trying times, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. The last thing she wanted was for her sister to become an inspiration to her fellow mages. People who inspired others usually ended up dead.

All things considered, perhaps Leandra was right about Bethany being safer in the Gallows, though Hawke would never admit it out loud; the tension in Kirkwall had only worsened in the past three years, and the Gallows were probably more secure than most other places in the city. But all that was only because Knight-Commander Meredith kept order with an iron grip, with Cullen as her right hand. Every year, the number of runaway mages turning to blood magic swelled, Meredith’s stranglehold tightened, and the rumblings of discontent in the Gallows grew ever louder. At some point, something had to give, and Hawke did not want to contemplate what that would end up looking like.

“Marian?” Bethany nudged her sister with her elbow, her voice light and curious. “You’re a million miles away. What are you thinking about?”

Hawke stared at her sister, trying to clear her head of the dark thoughts chasing each other around in never-ending circles. “I was… thinking about how to wear my hair tonight,” she said inanely.

Bethany gave her a small smile that showed she knew Marian was lying. “So who is the unfortunate young man Mother wants you to flirt with this time? I take it you scared Lord Hollings off for good after the last party?”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “The duel was entirely his idea. It certainly wasn’t my fault he wields his sword like a blind man trying to cut up an apple.”

“Ladies do not _duel_ their suitors,” Leandra noted, looking displeased as her daughters giggled.

“I’m sorry, Mother, but really, he was asking for it.” Hawke unsuccessfully tried to stifle her laughter. The arrogant bastard had made it clear he thought the rumors of Hawke’s various escapades had been greatly exaggerated, and when she’d refused to back down, he’d made a foolish wager – if he could beat her in a duel, she would have to publicly accept his attentions as a formal suitor. Hawke thought she’d been very restrained, under the circumstances; she’d been tempted to make him promise to run around Hightown naked shouting “I am a complete and utter twat” at the top of his lungs if he lost. Instead, she’d merely accepted his challenge with no counteroffer, and swiftly disarmed him rather than disemboweling him, which was more mercy than he deserved. Leandra could disapprove all she wanted, but the truth was that the incident had made dinner parties at the Hawke estate one of the most sought-after social events in Kirkwall.

“Well, I’m sure Marian will behave herself tonight.” Bethany tried to reassure her mother while giving her sister a mockingly stern sideways look. “Who else is on the guest list, Mother?”

The hour slipped by all too quickly, as it always did. It seemed only a few minutes later when Bethany glanced at the clock and rose with a regretful smile. Hawke hugged her sister tightly as a Templar knocked on the door, not a second later than he was meant to. “Take care of yourself, Bethy.”

“You too, Mari.” Bethany gave her sister her customary sunny smile, kissed their mother dutifully on the cheek, and followed the Templar back to her room without a word of complaint.

“She always seems a little thinner every time we visit,” Leandra sighed quietly as they passed through the Gallows, walking quickly past the stern and watchful eyes of the countless Templars scattered around the courtyard.

Hawke opened her mouth to make a flippant reply, then closed it without saying anything. She tentatively took her mother’s arm in an attempt to offer some comfort, unsure of what else to do. Leandra looked at her in surprise, but then took Hawke’s hand in her own and squeezed it with real warmth. They walked along in a companionable silence, Hawke savoring the rare moment of affection between them. It wasn’t likely to last long, not with a dinner party only a few hours away, but she would take whatever she could get.

***

Hawke stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror and let out a long sigh – or tried to. The laces of her bodice were done up so tightly she couldn’t really manage it. She had decidedly mixed feelings about dressing up for dinner parties. On one hand, she couldn’t deny she liked what she saw in the mirror. Her black hair was pulled back into a soft knot at the nape of her neck and held in place with a simple ebony comb, a few loose tendrils artfully framing her face. Her ruby-red gown glowed against her olive complexion. Its minimal lines flattered her small frame. The hems were decorated with a simple pattern of golden scrollwork but otherwise lacking the frills and flounces that seemed to be all the rage in Kirkwall these days. A narrow belt embroidered with golden vines accentuated the curves of her waist.  She turned a little in the mirror, shamelessly admiring the way the lines of her slender neck rose from the low-cut square neckline.

On the other hand, the tightness of the gown was rather confining. She would be hard-pressed to throw a dagger without ripping the delicate fabric beyond repair. Her mother had sighed in exasperation when Hawke had complained about this at the dress fitting and said pointedly that ladies at dinner parties had no occasion to be waving their arms wildly about at any rate. Hawke privately thought her mother had deliberately bullied her into such a confining dress to avoid a repeat of the duel incident with Lord Hollings. Although her mother didn’t know her very well if she thought a ripped dress was going to be enough to stop Marian Hawke from stabbing a snooty noble who was practically begging to be taught a lesson.

She wondered if anyone she actually cared to spend time with would show up tonight. Her friends always had a standing invitation to any dinner party at the Hawke estate. To Leandra’s credit, she’d never protested, though she had raised an eyebrow the first time Isabella had shown up in her usual pantsless attire. Hawke had convinced the shameless pirate to wear a gown for subsequent parties. Isabella managed to look scandalous regardless of what she wore, but least _most_ of her was covered when she mingled with the nobility of Kirkwall nowadays. Varric and Aveline also dropped by fairly regularly (thankfully never pantsless). Merrill and Anders had come a handful of times, but always through the back door, and Hawke made sure she entertained them in a private room; She wasn’t about to risk more people she cared about being dragged off to the Gallows.

Fenris also attended occasionally, although never on his own. After that fateful conversation three years ago, Fenris and Hawke had tried to work out what it meant to be platonic friends, with limited success. The key seemed to be never being alone in each other’s company. They fought alongside each other, drank together, played Wicked Grace at the same table, but never without the others present. At first it had seemed incredibly awkward, trying to pretend there was nothing between them save the same kind of camaraderie and affection that existed between Hawke and the rest of her companions. But perhaps pretending long enough had made it the truth, or something close enough to it. Hawke wasn’t even sure anymore. She found it easier not to dwell on it for too long, to push her feelings to one side rather than trying to examine them or understand them. The absence of whatever it was they had briefly shared had left a hole in her life that she had never quite been able to fill.

Hawke heard the faint chiming of the hour from the clock downstairs, signaling that it was time for her to make ready to greet their guests. She opened a drawer and took out a slender knife, not much bigger than the one their cook used to slice fruit, and carefully slid it into a cunningly designed strap attached to the inside of her left sleeve. Fancy gowns always had long trailing sleeves, which were perfect for hiding all sorts of things. Hawke told herself she wasn’t planning to start any trouble tonight, but that didn’t mean trouble wouldn’t happen anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.

***

Fenris resisted the urge to tug at his collar and instead clasped his hands behind his back as they made their way towards the Hawke estate. No matter how often he dressed in fancy clothes, he could never quite feel comfortable in them. Often he wondered why he even bothered. Hawke never pressured him to show up to her dinner parties. They saw each other often enough. But for some reason he found himself wearing these uncomfortable clothes at least once every few months, accompanying Varric or Aveline or Isabella to the estate to rub elbows with people he couldn’t care less about. He told himself it was just a nice change from his normal predictable routine of eating cold chicken at home or mysterious stew at the tavern, but deep down he knew that was not the reason he went.

Countless times he had told himself he was going to leave Kirkwall for good and start a new life elsewhere. Hawke had told him again and again that whatever debt he felt he owed her had been repaid in full. But no matter how strongly his rational mind argued that he should leave, he was unable to go. He felt vaguely guilty about his continued presence, wondering if it was part of the reason Hawke had stayed resolutely single these past three years. But then he told himself he was being vain and ridiculous. Hawke was a charming, remarkable woman – there was no reason she’d still be pining after him, especially when he’d made it clear to her they could never be together.

“Those pants are rather flattering to your bottom,” Isabella remarked, cheerfully brazen. She was walking one step behind him, her thick wavy hair piled carelessly on top of her head and pinned in place with two long slender pins, chunky silver earrings dangling wildly from her ears. She was dressed in a bright blue gown, cut to reveal a generous amount of cleavage and laced with silver ribbons. The whole outfit might have seemed tacky on many women, but Isabella managed to pull it off with careless aplomb.

“You say that to far too many people for me to take you seriously, Isabella,” Fenris told her, mildly amused.

“Just because I say it often doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” She shrugged. “It’s not nice you know, to show off goods you don’t mean to share.”

Fenris knew she was trying to get a reaction out of him and deliberately stared ahead with a neutral expression. “I hardly think I’m showing off anything.”

Isabella snorted indelicately. “That’s not very convincing, Fenris, not when you’re wearing those pants.”

They arrived at the entrance to the estate, and the two men at the door recognized them and waved them inside without a second glance. Fenris frowned. He’d told Hawke time and again that she needed to hire more regular guards for her estate. It was bad enough she didn’t even have regular servants; Hawke only kept a handful of staff on hand, and for dinner parties Bodahn simply hired temporary help. That mean strangers regularly in and out of the estate. Hawke seemed dismissive of the idea that anyone would go to the trouble to infiltrate her own home, and so far she’d been right. But it still set Fenris’s teeth on edge.

Bodahn greeted them effusively and showed them to the drawing room. People in silks and velvets were milling around, nibbling on canapes and chattering in subdued voices. Servants were scattered throughout the room, serving food and wine to the guests. Many of the nobles kept trying to stare at Fenris and Isabella without giving themselves away. Hawke and her companions had made a name for themselves these past few years, and Fenris was sure many of the guests thought her association with the likes of them was quite scandalous. Not that Hawke cared. Fame and fortune hadn’t affected her at all. She still drank at The Hanged Man, still preferred daggers to dresses, still played Wicked Grace and grumbled over losing even a copper to a bad hand. Sometimes it was easy to forget that she was now officially a lady. Especially when she discouraged would-be suitors with a dagger to the throat rather than the decorous and delicately worded refusal that was expected of proper young ladies. Fenris allowed himself a private smile at the memory of Hawke disarming the pompous nobleman with a careless ease, even hampered as she was by her long skirts and flowing sleeves. He’d been quite happy to be in attendance at that particular dinner party.

He spotted her in a corner, wine glass in hand. Her head was tilted to one side, and her lips were curved in a small smile. She looked lovelier than ever in her dark red dress, the bodice clinging snugly to her curves. It took him a moment to realize she was speaking with the man Varric called Choir Boy. Sebastian Vael, Fenris recalled after a brief moment of thought. He was a member of the Chantry but somehow also a prince of one of the Free Marches; Fenris had never really understood the complicated politics surrounding his position. They had crossed paths only a few times, and he seemed decent enough, though he had a somewhat annoying tendency to spout Chantry verses whenever he thought appropriate.

Vael was leaning towards Hawke, speaking quietly into her ear, and Hawke seemed to be listening intently, her cheeks faintly flushed with wine, her amber eyes crinkled in amusement. Then she threw her head back and let out a raucous laugh that was most unladylike. The next minute she covered her mouth, slightly chagrined, but Vael didn’t seem appalled by her manners; he was looking down at her with a grin that made Fenris involuntarily clench his jaw. He reminded himself he had no right to be jealous of whoever Hawke chose to speak to – or even flirt with. He had made that decision long ago, and he knew it was the right one for both of them. So then why did he have to repress the impulse to break Vael’s perfect teeth with a well-placed fist?

“Is something wrong?” Isabella purred beside him, twining her hand into the crook of his elbow.

He looked down at her, vaguely surprised to be reminded of her presence. “No.”

“You may think being broody makes you hard to read, but you don’t fool me.” Isabella’s voice was full of suppressed laughter. “Would you like me to make you feel better?”

“I don’t think,” Fenris began to say, but Isabella pressed herself against him even tighter and stood up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “You still want to shag her, don’t you?”

He stared at her, appalled at the bluntness of her question. “It’s none of your business, woman.”

She laughed, her deep blue eyes dancing only inches away from his own. Despite her brazen ways, he had to admit, she was both beautiful and charming in her own way.  For a brief moment he wondered how things might have worked out between them if he’d never met Hawke. Isabella was brash and confident and refreshingly uncomplicated. But she was not Hawke, not even close.

“You have a talent for overcomplicating things, Fenris,” she whispered gleefully, as if reading his mind. “Hawke still lusts after you, I can see it in her eyes. Honestly, you two should just shag and get it over with. You are driving the rest of us insane with the tension.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Fenris growled, trying to disentangle himself from Isabella discreetly. He sensed one of the servants eyeing them suspiciously. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention. But Isabella’s slender fingers gripped his arm with surprising strength.

“You’re not the only one who owes Hawke a debt, you know,” she told him, and suddenly her cheerful tone was at odds with the sharp light in her eyes. “Hawke is one of the very few people I actually give a shit about, and I’m not going to let you ruin her life with some stupid angsty romance that is clearly going nowhere.”

He caught Hawke staring at them out of the corner of his eye, and suddenly realized how it must look to her. He could feel the weight of Isabella’s breasts pressing against his arm, the warmth of her breath on his chin. “I would rather not cause a scene,” he said mildly, but there was a warning behind his calm tone. “Let me go.”

Isabella was not at all impressed. She pealed with laughter as if he had something outrageously hilarious, then let go of his arm with a casual shrug, turning to wave to Hawke as if nothing had happened. “Hawke! We’re here!”

“Hello, Isabella. Fenris.” Hawke nodded. She greeted Isabella with a kiss as was her habit, but tonight she seemed inclined to be distant. Fenris had the distinct feeling Isabella was pleased with herself, though he couldn’t imagine why she should be.

Hawke gestured to Vael, favoring him with a smile. “You know Brother Sebastian, yes?”

“Just Sebastian, please.” He corrected her. “Though I still pray for the Maker’s guidance, I am no longer a Chantry brother.”

“Their loss.” Isabella shamelessly gave Sebastian her best flirtatious once over. To his credit, the erstwhile holy man seemed serenely unflustered, responding to her appreciative leer with a smile that managed to be both beatific and amused.

“Sebastian is looking to avenge the murder of his family.” Hawke explained. “Apparently the mercenaries we dispatched previously were hired by the Harimann family, right here in Kirkwall.”

“I thought the Chantry preached that you should forgive your enemies.” Fenris remarked, a hint of sarcasm creeping into his tone.

“I will fight first, and ask forgiveness later,” Sebastian retorted, and the humor in his voice made Fenris smile slightly despite himself.

“I doubt the Maker will mind if we rid Kirkwall of a few corrupt nobles.” Hawke shrugged and sipped her wine. “There are plenty of them to go around.”

“Despite my lady’s best efforts?” Sebastian suggested, clearly amused. Hawke laughed, and Fenris felt a pang in his chest. She seemed so at ease around this man. And why shouldn’t she? He was a prince and a warrior, and a far better match for Hawke than a fugitive slave unable to master his own fears.

There was a sudden ripple throughout the room that made all four of them turn their attention towards the entrance. A familiar figure, tall and fair, was making his way through the guests, leaving a trail of excited whispers and blatantly curious glances in his wake. He did no more than nod curtly at the murmur of greetings; no doubt everyone was going to think him insufferably rude, but it was clear the Knight-Captain of the Kirkwall Templars couldn’t care less. His expression was grimly determined, more suited to a man trying to wade through a den of demons than a room full of Kirkwall’s nobility. Then again, Fenris reflected, how much difference was there really between the two?

“Well, what a lovely surprise, Knight-Captain!” Leandra extended her hand with a smile as Cullen drew closer. “Your duties always keep you so busy; we didn’t expect the pleasure of your presence tonight. Welcome.”

“My lady.” Cullen took her hand and bent over it perfunctorily before stepping closer to Hawke, a frown creasing his face. “Apologies, but this is not a social call. I…”

“Has something happened to Bethany?” Hawke interrupted, her hand tightening around her wine glass. Leandra gave a sudden, subdued gasp, as if only now realizing the implications of Cullen’s visit.

“What? Oh, no, no.” Cullen was flustered by Hawke’s sudden alarm. “My apologies, it was short-sighted of me not to realize that’s what you would assume. Bethany is fine, she is in no trouble.”

Hawke relaxed with a relieved laugh. “Well then, Knight-Captain. Whatever has brought you here can wait until you have a drink.”

Cullen frowned, refusing to be sidetracked. “Hawke… my lady, this is really not the time to…”

“We must insist, Knight-Captain.” Leandra was gesturing a servant bearing a tray of full wine glasses to come closer, smiling at Cullen. It was a perfectly pleasant smile but it carried a definite hint of aggressive courtesy. No doubt she was eager to stop the Templar from speaking of apostate blood mages or Maker knew what else might put a damper on the dinner party.

“Knight-Captain Cullen,” the servant murmured as she approached, staring boldly in a manner that was most unservant-like. “What an unexpected boon.”

Leandra frowned at the servant’s forwardness. “That will do,” she said, a mild warning in her tone.

Fenris suddenly felt himself tense, knew without looking that Hawke and the others felt it too, that instinctive sixth sense running through them like a single taut thread. Hawke reached out and without warning shoved her mother away, causing Leandra to stumble backwards with an undignified shriek. Almost at the same time the servant shouted “Death to Templars and all who aid them!” as she made to fling her tray straight at Cullen’s head. He reflexively brought up a non-existent shield, and the tray crashed against his left forearm, glass and wine flying everywhere. Isabela was already taking the servant down with a well-placed kick to her midriff. A burst of light exploded from the servant’s hands as she crumpled, narrowly missing Hawke and exploding against the curtains, setting them aflame. Sebastian wasted no time in ripping them off the rails and stomping out the blaze before it could spread.

The servant/mage was already trying to chant out another spell, awkwardly scrambling to get to her feet. Fenris helped her stand by wrapping his hand around her throat and yanking her upwards, taking grim pleasure in hearing the words of her spell choked off.

A high-pitched scream drew their attention to the far side of the room, where another mage had just revealed himself. He had used some sort of magic that was causing many of the guests to run screaming in terror, mindlessly trying to escape apparitions only they could see. He then pointed at Hawke, eyes burning with hatred, and before anyone could react shouted the words to another spell. Hawke gave a strangled gasp and collapsed to her hands and knees as if being crushed from above by an invisible force. She coughed, spattering the wooden floor with blood.

Fenris let his fingers sink into the woman’s neck, through skin and muscle, crushing her windpipe for good with a visceral crunch. But before he could make a move towards the other mage, Isabela had already whipped out one of her hair pins and hurled it across the room with her usual unerring accuracy. It was aimed directly at the mage’s right eye. But just before it hit home, the pin hit an invisible barrier and clattered harmlessly to the floor.

“There!” Sebastian shouted, already moving towards a third servant huddled behind a bookcase, quietly chanting incantations beneath her breath. Clearly this one was the most cowardly of the three; as soon as she realized she’d been caught, she stopped what she was doing and darted towards the window. But Isabella’s second hairpin embedded itself in her right calf, and half a second later Sebastian had pinned her to the ground, his boot firmly on her back, grimly deaf to her squeals of pain.

Fenris had wasted no time; as soon as he’d realized the second mage was behind a barrier, he’d sprinted towards him with razor-sharp focus, drawing on the power of his lyrium markings to make himself into little more than a blur. He passed through the barrier with ease, the magic dissolving against his skin, and before the mage could react Fenris had used his tattoos to blast a wave of furious dark energy at him. The mage fell back, wounded and dazed. Fenris was not about to let him recover; he reached into the man’s chest, wrapped his hand around the man’s beating heart, and squeezed it with cold determination. The man barely had time to register shock on his face before his heart burst inside his body, killing him instantly.

Fenris stood up, whipping around to where he’d last seen Hawke. Cullen was standing over her, hand outspread in the now-dead mage’s general direction. Suddenly the panicked guests stopped in their tracks, staring around them in confusion; clearly the Templar had used his abilities to dispel the magical effects causing them to hallucinate. Likewise the spell that had been holding Hawke had been lifted. She had been on her hands and knees, struggling to resist; now, she fell on her side, coughing weakly. Cullen had dropped to his knees and was helping her sit up, but she was feebly trying to push him away, protesting she was fine.

“Hawke, don’t be a bloody idiot. You’re clearly not fine.” Isabela scolded, gently dabbing Hawke’s face with a handkerchief.

Hawke managed a shaky grin, despite clearly still being in some pain. “Well, I’m so glad I came prepared,” she quipped faintly, letting one sleeve fall away to reveal a dagger still strapped to her forearm. “Next time we have a party, I’ll be wearing a full set of armor no matter what Mother thinks.”

“Marian!” Leandra was kneeling next to Hawke, patting her in a frenzy as if to make sure she was still all in one piece. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Mother, really.” Hawke waved her mother away, gripping Isabela’s arm as she tried to stand up. “You should see to our guests.” She coughed and grimaced. “I’m sure they’ll all need smelling salts after that little performance.”

“Are you sure? Do you need a healer?” Leandra was hovering, clearly torn between making sure her daughter was all right and trying to salvage what she could of the disastrous dinner party.

Hawke reassured her mother once more, and Leandra gave her daughter a quick kiss before hurrying over to her guests, who were in various states of hysterics and drinking liberal quantities of wine in an attempt to soothe their nerves.

“The servants must be questioned.” Cullen was staring down at Hawke with a preoccupied frown. “This was an orchestrated attack.”

“I have a stash of potions in my room.” Hawke’s pale lips were pressed tightly together in determination. “Just let me…” Her eyes seemed to lose focus as she spoke, and she started to slump to the floor.

Fenris acted without thinking. He stepped forward and scooped Hawke up in his arms, cradling her head against his shoulder. She rested against him, completely unconscious but still breathing slow, regular breaths.

“I will get her a potion.” He scowled at the rest of them, daring anyone to make a comment. Isabela stared back with a perfectly blank expression – a rarity for her. And just as well; in his current mood, Fenris might have stabbed her with her own daggers if she’d dared to make her usual bawdy jests.

“We will get to the bottom of what happened here,” Sebastian replied gravely.

Fenris gave him a short nod before carrying Hawke out of the room before anyone else noticed and up the winding staircase. He had never been past the second floor of the mansion, but he was able to find Hawke’s room without too much trouble. Fortunately the door was ajar; he nudged it open with his toe and made his way inside. There was still a small fire crackling in the fireplace, giving off a cozy glow, and he carefully lay her down on the rug in front of it, taking care her gown didn’t brush against the coals.

As he crouched over her, staring at her drawn face, he realized that this was first time he’d been so close to her since… since their last private conversation in this very house. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since then. For the past three years they had co-existed like two parallel lines; always in sight of each other but never touching. They’d fought at each other’s side, drank at the same table… still somehow they had managed the fine art of hovering just out of the other’s reach. Yet the moment she’d fallen into his arms, the sudden weight of her against him had brought everything rushing back, like a ghostly presence abruptly solidifying into human flesh. The warm smoothness of her skin, the familiar smell of her hair… Hesitantly, his fingers just barely grazed the outline of her face, and he lost himself for a moment in the memory of their last kiss, how she had tasted faintly of whiskey against his tongue.

He curled his hand into a fist and cursed himself under his breath. This was foolish; nothing had changed for him in the intervening years. Danarius was still out there, and the pain of what Fenris had suffered under his cruelty was just as raw as it had been three years ago. He had been very careful to maintain the perfect distance from Hawke that made his life bearable; close enough to guard her back, but far enough to maintain the fiction that they could still be friends. And now in the space of a few minutes that illusion was wavering, threatening to melt away like frost under the morning sun.

He forced himself to stand up, taking a moment to look around her room. It wasn’t overly large and the furnishings were cozy rather than ornate; good quality wood without any fancy carvings or gilded edges. One wall was covered in shelves filled with a hodgepodge of books. In a corner he spotted a rack for her armor and her daggers, along with a large set of cabinets. A quick rummage revealed a collection of potions crammed into one of the higher shelves. Hawke would have needed a chair to reach them, Fenris realized with a tinge of amusement.

His amusement faded when he spotted a vial of lyrium among the bottles. He couldn’t help the involuntary shudder that ran through him at the sight of the bright blue liquid, glowing faintly in its glass container. The markings on his skin seemed to prickle as if in response. He stepped back from the cabinet with a muttered curse, trying to regain his composure, angry at himself for being so easily rattled.  

A faint moan from Hawke, still lying on the rug next to the fireplace, brought him to his senses. He quickly picked out a bottle of healing potion from the collection and carefully closed the cabinet doors before turning away. Kneeling next to Hawke, he uncorked the bottle and gently dribbled a few drops onto her lips, patiently waiting for her to involuntarily swallow before doing it again. After a few more times, her eyes fluttered open.

“Fenris?” she croaked, disoriented. “What…?”

“You should drink the rest of this.” He helped her lift her head and put the flask to her lips. She obediently swallowed the rest of the potion, and almost immediately some color returned to her cheeks.

She quickly scrambled to a sitting position, staring at Fenris at him in mild confusion. Her eyes glowed golden in the firelight. “Why are we here? Where are the others?”

“They are downstairs. You lost consciousness after the attack.”

Hawke blinked, then gave a rueful smile, absently tucking her hair behind her ears. She had been wearing it in a low knot, but now it was mostly hanging loose in wild tendrils about her face. “How embarrassing.” She looked up at him, her smile fading a little. “Thank you, Fenris.”

He shrugged, looking away, his voice as noncommittal as he could make it. “I’ve told you before, Hawke, you need more guards. And better servants.”

Hawke laughed. “And deny you the pleasure of telling me I told you so?” She pushed herself to her feet. He followed suit, eyeing her disapprovingly before he could stop himself, and she flashed him the cheeky grin he knew too well. “Don’t scold me, Fenris, I imagine I’ll get an earful from plenty of other people before the night is over.”

“I wouldn’t waste my breath,” he retorted.

“Smart man.” There were still shadows under her eyes; the potion had been small and not quite enough to restore back to full health. “Shall we go back downstairs? I hope Isabela hasn’t poked them full of holes quite yet.”

Fenris opened his mouth to tell her she’d do better to rest, then closed it without saying anything. That really would be a waste of breath. Hawke was looking up at him, her hair wild and tangled, her fine gown wrinkled and stained, and he found himself desperately crushing the impulse to push her back down on the rug beside the fireplace and pin her body beneath his own. Instead, he opened the bedroom door and gave her a nod, as if they were about to enter a ballroom and not go downstairs to interrogate power-mad apostates. She gave him a small smile, her amber eyes unreadable in the flickering firelight, and led the way downstairs.

***

When they entered the study, they found two dead bodies lying neatly next to each other and one terrified mage bound and gagged and tied to a chair. She was crying and whimpering through her gag in the most pathetic way, but Hawke was not inclined to feel much sympathy. Her insides felt like they’d been scrambled and turned inside out. Thankfully there wasn’t much in her stomach she could bring up at the moment. _I suppose I should be grateful they decided to kill us before dinner rather than after._

Cullen was standing in front of the captured mage, arms crossed, his chiseled features hard and unforgiving. Sebastian and Isabela were standing on either side of him, the former looking gravely thoughtful, the latter looking wryly amused.

“Hawke!” Isabela exclaimed when she’d caught sight of her. “Your hair is a sight.”

Hawke rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I’m sorry, I thought interrogating the person who tried to kill me was a little more important than fixing my hair.”

Sebastian was at her side already, hovering. “You should sit down, Hawke. You’re about to fall over.”

His hand was at her elbow, trying to direct her to a chair, but she stepped away and gave him her best smile, though what she really wanted to do was slap him, prince or no prince. The last thing she wanted was to seem weak in front of the enemy. Though from the way Cullen was scowling, she’d be surprised if this particular mage ever saw the light of day again. “I’m fine, Sebastian, really. Apart from my hair, apparently.”

Meanwhile, Fenris had stalked over to the prisoner, his green eyes narrowed with the particular brand of disgust and hatred he reserved for mages. Hawke sighed inwardly. For a moment, in her room, when it had just been the two of them... She’d almost forgotten what that had been like: the easy, comfortable warmth they’d shared before her magic had created an impenetrable barrier between them. _No use mooning about it now, Marian. Some things will never change._ She eyed Sebastian briefly, wondering if she would have to let him in on her secret as well. He was handsome, funny, and charming, and a superb archer to boot, but could she trust him with her life? She couldn’t be sure. The Starkhaven-prince-turned-Chantry-brother-turned-vengeful-warrior was a difficult one to read.

“Has she said anything?” Fenris demanded, interrupting her musings.

“We couldn’t bloody get her to shut up.” Isabela retorted. “We didn’t do anything to her, you know. I didn’t know blood mages were such crybabies.”

“Apparently they are part of a cult who have a personal grudge against Hawke,” Sebastian added.

Hawke couldn’t help but laugh, though it made her dizzy. She surreptitiously leaned against a bookcase, hoping no one noticed. “They really should have made an appointment. I only deal with personal grudges on Tuesdays.”

“They’re part of that insane maleficar cult you dealt with years ago, Hawke.” Cullen was glaring at the prisoner, clearly unmoved by her whimpers. “The one that was kidnapping Templars and planting demons in them.”

Hawke blinked, genuinely surprised. Fenris also seemed nonplussed by the news, though he showed no reaction beyond a flicker of an eyelid. “We killed them all,” he said bluntly.

“Not all of them, apparently. And actually, that was why I came here in the first place.” Cullen fished out a scrap of parchment from one of his pockets and handed it to Hawke.

“Are you saying you didn’t come to our dinner party for the fine wine and sparkling conversation?” Hawke quipped, putting a hand on her heart as if in pain. “I am so very hurt, Knight-Captain Cullen.”

He eyed her sternly, though Hawke could have sworn she saw the barest glimmer of begrudging amusement in his dark eyes. It was hard to tell with him. “Please stop being ridiculous and read the letter, Hawke.”

 _So it’s back to Hawke now, is it?_ Hawke pursed her lips to keep from smiling; she didn’t want Cullen to realize his slip. She smoothened the paper and squinted at the scribbled lines. Isabela and Sebastian peered over her shoulders. Fenris seemed deliberately uninterested, choosing instead to watch the tied-up mage as if he fully believed her capable of turning into a bat and flying out the window.

It was a hastily written note, clearly addressed to the mages in the Gallows, calling upon them to embrace the magic that was rightfully theirs in order to throw off the chains of Templar oppression. It made reference to Tarohne, the woman that had been the ringleader of the mages who had kidnapped multiple Templars and made them demon hosts, and how she had martyred herself for her fellow mages. The note explicitly mentioned Hawke and her companions as puppets of the Templars who had brought about her untimely demise. “Well, it’s nice to be acknowledged.” Hawke murmured, mostly to herself.

The note also included something disturbing: that there were several tomes of dark magic hidden in and around Kirkwall, created by Tarohne. The note urged all mages to find these tomes, promising that the tomes could bestow great power to those brave enough to read them.

“Evil magic tomes? Even Varric would avoid such a cliché.” Isabela laughed.

“It’s no laughing matter,” Sebastian looked at her disapprovingly. “These tomes in the wrong hands could mean disaster for Kirkwall.”

“Blood magic unleashed in the streets?” Hawke rolled her eyes. “Just another day in Kirkwall. I doubt anyone would even notice.” She could see Cullen opening his mouth, on the verge of delivering a lecture, and hastily interrupted him before he could begin. “But of course, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do anything about it.”

Cullen let out a breath with exaggerated patience. “The mage swears she only had information on one of the tomes. It’s supposedly hidden in a cave located at the foot of Sundermount, near the Dalish camp.”

Hawke eyed the mage thoughtfully. At this point she seemed to have given up. She was slumped as far forward as the ropes would allow, tears trickling down her cheeks and soaking her gag. Hawke felt an unwelcome pang of sympathy. This crazy woman had tried to kill her in her own home. Why should she feel sorry for her?

Cullen caught her staring at the prisoner and misinterpreted her look. “Don’t worry, Hawke, she won’t have the chance to threaten you or your family again.” He spoke in a tone that was meant to be reassuring. “My men should be here any minute now.”

 _Shit._ Hawke had to make a supreme effort to keep her expression unchanged. She didn’t know if Anders was going to show up tonight; knowing her luck, he probably would. She had to make her excuses quickly and get to the cellar before the night could get any worse.

“I know you’re a busy man, Knight-Captain, so as a model citizen of Kirkwall I will perform my civic duty and deal with this tome myself.” Hawke gave Cullen her most sincere smile. “Tomorrow, in fact.”

Cullen eyed her doubtfully, but Hawke knew as well as he did that the Templars had their hands full these days dealing with runaway mages fermenting rebellion in every dark corner of Kirkwall. “If you’re sure…”

“I will go with you,” Fenris offered, his eyes glinting. Hawke had to keep a sardonic smile from twisting her face; of course Fenris would be unable to resist the urge to stamp out any form of magic from this world. She felt a childish impulse to tell him _no_ , but she held her tongue; she couldn’t go alone, and she knew despite everything she could always rely on him to guard her back.

“I will, too,” Sebastian added. His face was practically aglow with fervor. No doubt the thought of battling blood magic gave him a most holy hard-on. She saw Fenris give him a measuring look, but it wasn’t altogether disapproving.

“Well, I’m sure there will be enough demons to keep everyone busy.” She shrugged, hoping to bring the conversation to a close. Her head was spinning, but she held on to consciousness grimly; she would not allow herself to faint away like some bloody damsel in distress. Isabela was at her side, her arm linked through hers with concern. Hawke felt vaguely guilty for giving her the cold shoulder earlier. _Bloody Fenris making me act like a massive bint._ No, that wasn’t fair, it was her own foolish feelings about the broody elf clouding her judgement.

“I’m sure you strapping lads can deal with all of this,” Isabela gestured flippantly to the tied up mage and her two dead compatriots, “without our help, yes?” She tugged on Hawke’s arm, leading her gently out of the room. “It’s far past Hawke’s bedtime. Say nighty-night, darling.”

Cullen looked at her with his intense dark eyes, steadfastly unamused. “Be careful tomorrow, Hawke.”

“Oh, I’m sure these two fine gentlemen will have no trouble protecting a fainting maiden like myself.” Hawke replied dryly, allowing Isabela to lead her out of the room. She saw Fenris watching her go but couldn’t quite interpret his expression. _Regret that he didn’t just let the blood mage kill me, most likely._ An unfair thought, but at the moment she couldn’t care less. She briefly wondered how he would react if he knew she’d been allowing Anders to sneak into her house whenever he wished.

“I need to get to the cellar,” she whispered to Isabela as they made their way down the hallway. The muted sounds of the dinner party in full swing filtered through the closed doors; apparently her mother had somehow managed to salvage the occasion after all.

Isabela laughed. “Normally I’d be all for a nightcap before bed, Hawke, but you are barely able to stand upright as it is.”

Hawke grunted impatiently. “Don’t be daft, Bela, I need to warn Anders in case he decides to show up tonight. The last thing I need is Cullen finding out I’ve been letting a hobo apostate creep around in my basement.”

Isabela stared at Hawke in surprise, but to her credit she didn’t stop moving, merely shifting their course so they were heading towards the back staircase. “Marian Hawke, did you give our resident hobo mage access to your backdoor?”

“Your filthy sense of humor is ridiculously predictable,” Hawke groaned, leaning heavily on her friend’s arm as they crept down the stairs as quietly as they could. For two experienced rogues, Hawke felt they were being embarrassingly noisy, but they managed to get downstairs without anyone peeking out to investigate.

Once they entered the cellar, Hawke stumbled to the ground and leaned on a random barrel with a muttered curse while Isabela quietly closed the door and barred it from the inside. “You really need to keep more healing potions around.”

“Forgive me for not expecting an attack at my own dinner party,” Hawke replied, too exhausted to be properly sarcastic. She shifted to a slightly more comfortable position on the cold stone floor, resting her forehead on a keg of what smelled like very nice wine. It was hard to see down here. The only light was from a few narrow windows near the ceiling which gave them a dusty view of the back garden from ground level.

Isabela was little more than a dark silhouette in the shadows. “Can’t you magically heal yourself? What use is being a mage if you can’t even do that?”

Hawke had to laugh at Isabela’s indignant tone. “I don’t have the energy to heal a splinter at the moment. And anyway, healing myself with Knight-Captain Cullen present might not have been the best idea.”

Isabela’s snorted. “You don’t give a nug’s arse about Cullen, Hawke. You just didn’t want to upset Fenris’s delicate sensibilities.”

“’A nug’s arse?’ You are spending far too much time with Varric.”

“Don’t change the subject. When are you going to stop mooning after that broody bastard? It’s been three bloody years, and there is no shortage of men who would be willing to shag you.”

“I’m not mooning after anyone,” Hawke muttered, closing her eyes and wondering if there was such a thing as a spell that could render someone temporarily mute. “Not all of us need a weekly shag to keep us going, you know.”

“You were ready to stab me between the shoulder blades when you saw me with Fenris tonight.” Isabela retorted with a certain satisfaction. “There’s no point in denying it, Hawke, I know you too well.”

Hawke opened her eyes and glared at Isabela before she realized it was too dark for her glare to do any good. “I’m telling you, one good shag would set you right.” Isabela continued, blithely unaware that Hawke was looking daggers in her general direction. “What about that prince? His arse is certainly passable.”

Hawke let out a reluctant chuckle. “He’s a Chantry brother, Isabela. Or was until quite recently, anyway.”

Isabela laughed. “Darling, I know men, and all that holier-than-thou stuff is less than skin deep with him. If you pounced on him naked, he wouldn’t say no.”

“I do hope you’re talking about me,” Ander’s voice came echoing from further on back in the cellar. A moment later and a weak light filled the room, momentarily blinding the two women. Hawke blinked to see Anders approaching her, a light-hearted grin on his face, the tip of his staff glowing faintly. His expression changed when he saw Hawke on the ground. “Maker’s breath, Hawke, what’s happened?”

“A crazy mage tried to murder her.” Isabela said pointedly. “Anyone you know, perhaps?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Anders knelt beside Hawke and put his hand on her forehead, murmuring the familiar words to a healing spell. Hawke felt the energy wash through her in a warm, gentle wave, dispersing the sense of nausea that had been roiling inside of her for the past hour. She let out a quiet breath of relief. “Thanks, Anders.”

“You really need to learn how to do that on your own.” Anders kept his hand on her forehead for a few moments longer than was necessary, concern in his dark eyes. His touch was warm and reassuring – no more and no less. Hawke was never quite sure how she felt when Anders did something like this: a gesture that seemed to hover just at the boundary between friendship and flirting. Certainly she felt none of the electricity that she felt with Fenris, that heightened sensation of nerves he stirred in her gut without even seeming to try. But maybe all that was overrated. It certainly hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Anders was a friend, trustworthy and dependable, and she felt sincere affection for him. But whenever she contemplated returning Anders’ advances, she felt… blank. it was a prospect that left her feeling something close to resignation, which didn’t seem like the greatest start to a potential relationship.

“So which insane blood mage did you manage to tick off this time, Hawke?” he asked wryly, crossing his arms and learning against a wooden column.

She tersely described to him what had happened at the dinner party. At the mention of blood mages, his eyes narrowed. Hawke could sense Justice lurking beneath the surface, like a distant thunderstorm. “I’m coming along tomorrow, then.” Anders said decisively.

Hawke leaned back and chewed her lip. On one hand, it made perfect sense to have a mage in their party tomorrow: destroying the tome would mostly like mean having to deal with demons at the very least. On the other hand, the thought of Anders in the same party as Fenris and Sebastian was already giving her a headache. Fenris and Anders despised each other just as much as they had three years ago and there was no sign of that ever changing. As for Sebastian, Hawke didn’t feel like she knew him well enough to know for certain how he was going to react.

She kept all her misgivings to herself, though. Giving voice to them wasn’t going to help matters. “Just _once_ I’d like to go on a picnic _without_ blood magic and demons,” she said instead.

“Some people have ants. We have death and destruction.” Anders replied with a crooked grin.

“Well, you’re welcome to all of it.” Isabela gestured dismissively. “Fighting demons with no promise of coin is certainly not my idea of a good time.”

Hawke sighed, unsurprised. “I’ll tell them you send your best.”

***

Hawke left the walls of Kirkwall early, refreshed after a good night’s rest and a hearty breakfast. She’d purposefully planned to set off before she expected any of the others to show up so she could have some time to herself.

After Bethany had been taken to the Circle, Hawke had finally let herself be persuaded by Anders to start practicing her magic. It still didn’t come to her naturally, and she was extremely careful about using it within the confines of Kirkwall, lest word of it somehow get back to the Templars. But she couldn’t deny its usefulness, nor the thrill that went up her spine whenever she allowed herself to reach for the raw energy of the Fade, channel it according to her will. The spells she knew were still fairly modest, mostly because she didn’t see the point of learning anything showy or spectacular when she was still trying to hide her magic from the world at large. Also she didn’t carry a staff, which meant she had nothing to help her boost her spellpower. But she had learned how to best use her magic in combat for maximum effect.

Today she was practicing a simple burst of energy, meant to wound enemies and throw them off balance. On its own it was pretty much the magical equivalent of a hard slap in the face – startling but hardly debilitating. But she’d found that if she managed to surprise her target first with a melee attack, disorienting them by striking from stealth, the spell had a far more devastating effect. It was a matter of timing more than anything else.

“Hard at work, I see.” Anders greeted her with warm approval when he arrived. “You’re getting rather good at that now. We could move on to a more powerful spell if you like.”

Hawke waved him away. “Thanks, Anders, but I doubt summoning thunderstorms in the middle of the day is going to escape Cullen’s notice.”

Anders shook his head, both amused and exasperated. “There’s a lot of room between a bolt of energy and a thunderstorm, you know.”

She extended her arm for another go at the boulder, but he reached out and held her wrist, positioning her palm slightly more downward. “The bolt tends to throw your hand up as it fires, so you can improve your aim if you aim slightly lower to begin with.”

With his fingers encircling her wrist, she focused and cast her spell, aiming for the center of the boulder. A streak of white light shot out and burst against the rock, right where she’d meant it to go.

“See? Much better.” Anders grinned. Hawke couldn’t help but grin back in return, absurdly pleased with herself.

“Hawke.” Fenris’s terse greeting startled her. Instinctively she snatched her hand back from Anders and stepped away before silently cursing herself for doing so. _I refuse to keep apologizing for my magic_ , she told herself sternly. In the past three years she’d come to reluctantly accept that her magic was a part of her she’d have to learn to live with. She was still struggling to find a balance between embracing that part of herself without letting it overwhelm her identity. But every time Fenris was there to witness her magic, she had a hard time keeping the familiar feelings of shame and disgust at bay.

He was standing just a few feet away, his arms crossed and his face his usual unreadable mask, but his brilliant green eyes were narrowed with disapproval. Suddenly Hawke felt angrily defiant. Fenris had forfeited his right to have a say in her personal life long ago. Why did she allow him to have this power over her? It was ridiculous. She deliberately stepped back to where she had been, next to Anders, and fought the urge to hide her hands behind her back, resting them at her sides instead. It was only then she noticed Sebastian accompanying Fenris. _Well, let’s see how this plays out, shall we?_

“Hawke,” Sebastian greeted her carefully. “I… didn’t know you were a mage.”

“It’s not something I like to share with people in general.” Hawke said breezily, keeping her attitude carefully casual. She could feel Anders tensing and prayed to the Maker that Justice would not put in a surprise appearance. He seemed to be closer to the surface more and more these days. “Are we going to have a problem?”

“I… would hope not.” Sebastian seemed, surprisingly, somewhat uncertain, his eyes darting to Anders and then back again to Hawke. “I believe mages are the Maker’s children, the same as any of us.”

“But you still believe they should be locked up in Circles,” Anders prompted, a hard edge in his voice.

Fenris was giving Sebastian a sideways look. Hawke wondered what Fenris would do if Sebastian took it into his head that she and Anders needed to be turned in to the Templars. Fenris had always made it very clear his loyalty to Hawke overrode any opinions he might have on Anders and Merrill. But did that mean he would actively oppose an effort to put them safely away in the Gallows? She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.

“Normally, I would.” Sebastian agreed. Hawke had to admire his cool; he seemed unconcerned by the fact he was clearly outnumbered. “But if you’re worried that I’m going to report you to the Templars, I can assure you right now – I won’t.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Why not?”

“Not everyone in the Chantry agrees with Meredith’s methods,” he retorted. “Perhaps if we were somewhere else, with a different Knight-Commander heading a different group of Templars, I might have tried to persuade you that the Circle was your best choice. But I wouldn’t be able to do that now with a clear conscience.”

He stepped closer to Hawke, offering his hand. She took it with an internal sigh of relief, shaking it firmly. “Thank you, Sebastian.”

“I know you, Hawke. I have fought at your side, and I know you are a good and honorable person.” Sebastian smiled at her, and she felt an unexpected flutter of warmth that threw her momentarily off-balance.

“If that’s the case, I do hope you put in a good word with the Maker for me next time you have a chat,” she quipped, taking familiar refuge in flippant humor and finding herself rewarded by Sebastian’s quiet chuckling. She was abruptly aware of Fenris’s presence, radiating disapproval as always, but whether it was disapproval in general or specifically aimed at Sebastian, she couldn’t be sure. _Wishful thinking, Marian Hawke. You’d like to think you still have the power to make him jealous, wouldn’t you?_

“Well, now that we’ve all made nice and had a warm fuzzy moment, shall we go destroy some blood magic artifacts and call it a day?” Anders suggested dryly, leaning on his staff.

They started down the path towards the cave Cullen had marked for them on the map. Hawke taking the lead, Sebastian bringing up the rear. Hawke took the opportunity to clear her mind, breathing in the cold, clean air and feeling it against her skin, attuning her senses to the wilderness around them. She could hear the wind gently rustling through the branches of the trees, but otherwise the mountain path was peacefully silent, the only sounds the faint creaking of armor and leather from her companions behind her.

Finding the tome was not as straightforward as she’d expected. The cave in question turned out to actually be an abandoned thaig, the entrance to it a freshly opened wound in the cliff face. And the ancient dwarven halls were crawling with demons and the undead. But the group found their rhythm fairly quickly; Anders used cold spells to freeze the creatures where they stood, making it easier for Fenris and Sebastian to shatter them into shards of harmless ice. Hawke meanwhile made good use of the skills she’d practiced just that morning by disorienting her enemies with her daggers before incapacitating them with her bolts of energy. There was one worrying moment where a fiery rage demon appeared out of the shadows and immediately went for Sebastian, who’d been prudently firing his arrows from a safe distance. The demon managed to set one of Sebastian’s arms on fire before Anders blew him back with a blast of ice and Fenris, energized from slaughtering a dozen enemies already, moved with inhuman speed to cleave through the demon with his sword. Sebastian tossed back a healing potion with stoic determination and was part of the fight once more, barely missing a heartbeat.

The tome was a thick book bound in dark red, unmarked leather which they found sitting on a plain stone table. Hawke picked it up gingerly. It felt surprisingly light in her hands, but she immediately felt a faint whisper of unease. What she found particularly disturbing was that the unease she felt was tinged with undeniable temptation. The magic in her blood tingled in anticipation. There was powerful magic between these pages beyond a doubt, and for a heartbeat she found herself imagining what it would be like to wield this arcane knowledge, to feel that rush of power flow, unchecked. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Are you tempted?” Fenris asked, his harsh tone shaking her out of her reverie.

She met his hard glare unhesitatingly, but instead of allowing herself to become provoked, she was oddly reassured by his predictable antagonism. “Do you want me to lie and say no?”

“How can you be so calm?” He hadn’t sheathed his sword, and now he gripped the hilt tightly with increased tension. Hawke could feel both Anders and Sebastian tensing as well, but she refused to get drawn into this escalating battle of wills. “Do you not fear what you could become?”

Hawke answered instinctively, without allowing herself to contemplate her words. “I’m not afraid, Fenris, because I trust you.”

He blinked, the sharp edge of his anger blunted by confusion. “What do you mean?”

She spoke sincerely, without a trace of irony. “If I ever were to give into temptation, I would trust you to strike me down, Fenris. That is why I have no fear.”

As she spoke, she felt the tingling in her blood subside, like ripples giving way to smoothness in a pond. The certainty of what she had said filled her with reassurance, dissipating the nagging fear she’d always felt whispering in the back of her mind whenever she wielded her magic. It was a strange thing, to be comforted by the idea of Fenris striking her down. But now that she had to think about it, she knew for a fact she’d rather die at Fenris’s hands than become a mindless creature devoured by her lust for power.

Fenris stared back at her, silent. She held his gaze steadily, trying to read the sudden swirl of chaotic emotions in his eyes. Clearly the thought of killing her had unnerved him. She found it perversely satisfying, though she had to laugh internally at herself. _I don’t mind you killing me, Fenris, as long as you feel bad about it afterwards._

“How touching,” Anders snapped, breaking the tense silence. “Nothing says _friendship_ like a promise of swift execution. Can we just destroy the bloody thing and get on with it?”

Hawke tossed the book on the floor and backed away. “By all means.”

Anders pointed his staff at the tome. “Prepare yourselves.” He summoned a bolt of pure energy from thin air. The air was filled with an acrid stink as the pages blazed with white flame, quickly burning into nothingness.

“More demons!” Sebastian warned, nocking an arrow as they found themselves surrounded by the creatures once more.

It was a sharp but short skirmish, and they managed to dispatch the second batch of demons without incurring any serious damage to themselves. Afterwards, as they were making their way back aboveground, Anders found a moment to keep her a few paces behind Sebastian and Fenris and mutter in her ear, “Are you secretly a masochist, Hawke? Or is there some other reason you delight in the company of a mage-hating, bloodthirsty monster?”

“Apologies for not wanting to live with a perpetually angry Fade spirit lurking inside my body,” she hissed back at him, striding ahead without waiting for his reaction. She couldn’t help the bitter smile that twisted her face as she thought about the absurdity of it all. The stricken look in his eyes when she’d told him she was counting on him to kill her if it came to that – he clearly did still care about her, even after all this time. Anders hadn’t been wrong with his previous comment, sarcasm notwithstanding. _Nothing like an affirmation of swift execution to warm a girl’s heart._


	10. A Bitter Pill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unpleasant surprise opens up old wounds.
> 
> (This chapter was edited on Dec 29. No major plot changes, just some re-writing of awkward dialogue.)

              They were halfway back to Kirkwall when they were ambushed.

              Exhausted from battling demons, pleased with their successful mission, Hawke and her companions had admittedly let their guard down. They had been strolling down the path, Hawke and Sebastian making meaningless small talk while Anders occasionally interjected with some sarcastic comment. Fenris had been only half-listening, his mind still preoccupied with the question of what he would do if Hawke were ever to turn into an abomination. It had never been a possibility he had allowed himself to dwell on, but she had seemed so confident that he would be more than willing to stick his sword through her heart if it ever came to that. He found her calm assurance frustrating rather than reassuring. Did she think these past three years had been easy for him? Maybe he had done too good a job of distancing himself from her. Although that had been the entire point – he’d wanted to be clear that there was never any hope they could ever be more than companions-in-arms. So then why was he so appalled by the fact that she trusted him to execute her if she ever succumbed to temptation? She seemed to have far more confidence in him than he himself did. Because if he was being brutally honest, he couldn’t say with certainty that he _wouldn’t_ hesitate. 

              “There are people up ahead,” Sebastian said abruptly, interrupting Fenris’s musings. “They, ah, don’t look very friendly.”

              Everyone froze. Fenris narrowed his eyes in disbelief at the approaching group. The sight of their dark robes, ominously familiar, filled his gut with sudden ice. He felt his limbs turned to stone, rooting him to the spot, paralyzing him with an all-encompassing fear that blanked everything else out of his mind.

 _Run_ , one part of him screamed.

 _Fall on your knees and beg for your life_ , another voice moaned.

 _They will not take me alive!_ a third voice snarled.

              “Hunters,” he managed to spit out, trying desperately to rally his wits. _Pull yourself together, you fool!_ He was no longer a fugitive on the run, alone and hunted. He had been living as a free man for almost four years now, and these years had not been spent idly. He had taught himself skills that Danarius could never have dreamed him capable of. He had never been easy prey, and now…

 _I am no longer prey,_ he told himself fiercely.

              “You are in possession of stolen property!” a nasally voice startled them from above. They looked up to see a man in mage robes, surrounded by a cluster of archers, all looking down at them menacingly.

              “Maker’s balls,” Hawke muttered, glaring up at the man with her hands on her hips. “What are you blathering about?” she yelled up at him, seemingly unconcerned by the fact that they were now both surrounded and outnumbered.

              “Back away from the slave now and you will be spared!” the mage shouted back, pointing at them with his staff.

              “Slave?” Sebastian repeated, clearly confused.

              Anders was silent, his arms crossed, eyeing Hawke as if waiting for her to give some sort of signal. Hawke ignored them both. Her amber eyes were wide with surprise as she turned to Fenris. “It’s only taken them three years to find you,” she remarked in an infuriatingly light-hearted tone. “I feel as if we need to give them some sort of reward for effort at least.”

              Fenris, in his panicked state, found himself unable to tell if she were joking or serious. But there was only time for the barest sliver of doubt to creep into his mind before Hawke whirled back to face the mage.

               “I’m afraid you must be mistaken,” she replied, pleasantly enough. “Let me enlighten you in case you are lost. You are in the Free Marches. We are in spitting distance of Kirkwall, which is under the Viscount’s authority, not Tevinter’s. There are no slaves here.”

              The mage gestured directly at Fenris with his staff. “That slave belongs to House Danarius of Tevinter, peasant. Hand him over now and we will allow you to leave quietly.”

              Fenris felt a surge of rage and desperation overwhelm his senses. _I will die before I go back!_ His lyrium markings burned with unchecked energy, prickling painfully under his skin. “ _I am not his slave!_ ” he screamed, recklessly charging forward as he pulled out his blade.

              It was a stupid move, he would later admit to himself, but in that moment he was past any sort of rational thought. The archers swiftly let loose a hail of arrows that Anders just barely managed to deflect with a defensive spell. Then the sky was filled with magic from the Tevinter mages, all hurling fire and lightning with deadly intent. Fenris felt the air crackle and his hair stand on end as bolts of light sizzled past him. One of them even burst against his left arm. He barely felt it. He didn’t care if all that was left of him at the end was a burnt husk. He would slay every last Tevinter mage and water the earth with their blood or he would die trying.

***

              Hawke knew a moment of real fear as she took brief refuge behind a tree amidst the hailstorm of lightning and fire. They were most definitely outnumbered, and Fenris was clearly not in any mood to strategize. He had plunged into the thick of it without a second thought, and she could only pray he would emerge relatively unscathed.

              Sebastian and Anders were also taking shelter behind nearby boulders, their faces grim as an errant flash of fire set some nearby bushes aflame. “We could just let them have him and say good riddance,” Anders muttered.

              “You should be ashamed of yourself,” Sebastian said sharply. “No right-thinking man would ever sell their companion to a Tevinter slaver.”

              “Who said anything about selling? They can have him for free,” Anders retorted.

              “Shut up, Anders,” Hawke said absently, her mind on the battle ahead. “We need to take out that bastard and his archers on the ridge first.”

              “I can immobilize the mage for a wee while,” Sebastian already had an arrow nocked to his bow. “That might give us enough time to reach them and take the archers out. If I get close enough I can cause a ruckus.” He shook his head. “But the bastards will pick us off one by one on our way up there.”

              “Anders, you go with Sebastian and provide some cover.” Hawke unsheathed her daggers. “I’ll draw their attention. That should be enough to get you close and deal with them all at once.”

              “This is your great plan, to turn yourself into a pincushion?” Anders objected.

              “I don’t recall asking for opinions.” Hawke gave him a cold stare, daring him to voice another protest. Whatever he saw in her eyes was enough to shut him up. He gave a tight nod and raised his staff. Sebastian let out a breath, smoothly drew his bow, swung himself out into the open and fired his arrow with only a heartbeat to aim at his target. It flew in a smooth arc, embedding itself in the mage’s foot and pinning him to the ground. The man shrieked like a stuck pig, and Hawke felt herself grinning like a madwoman. “Go!” She shattered a flask at their feet but darted out into the open before the contents could touch her. The heady mix of chemicals would obscure them from the enemy for a short while, but _her_ aim was to be noticed.

              The archers wasted no time. Arrows whizzed by, peppering the ground around her, and she had to react more on instinct than anything else. She darted from tree to boulder, trying to take cover but at the same time exposing herself long enough to be a target so their attention wouldn’t be drawn elsewhere. At least the mage was still incapacitated; whatever Sebastian had done to him had apparently rendered him temporarily unable to cast spells. Hawke tried to gauge the distance between herself and the archers. Could she fling a spell so far?

              She focused intently on the rhythm of the arrows being shot her way; they seemed to be coming in clusters of five. _Not much of a gap to work with, though; tighter than a Chantry brother’s arsehole._  Still, she decided she would have to risk it. As soon as the fifth arrow was airborne she faced the archers head on and began casting with furious concentration.

              A sharp pain blossomed in her right shoulder before she could finish, but she refused to let it penetrate her focus. The spell crackled, took form, and unleashed its power with a satisfying, blinding flash. The next arrows flew wide, missing her by a mile. The mage was cursing, finally having pulled free of Sebastian’s arrow, and she could hear the first words of a spell. Then the voice was abruptly cut off as the air around the enemy filled with black smoke and cries of confusion. Anders and Sebastian had reached them at last.

              Hawke looked down and was vaguely surprised to see an arrow sticking out of her left shoulder. Luckily she was wearing light armor, but it had still managed to pierce through the leather and draw some blood. She grabbed it, clenched her teeth, and yanked it out with a curse. The pain intensified tenfold, but she had no time to indulge herself. She could see Fenris, the ground around him already littered with several corpses, his armor blood-spattered. One of the surviving mages had managed to position herself behind a boulder and was keeping him at bay with bolts from her staff. Hawke saw one of her bolts hit home and sizzle against Fenris’s armor, but other than a grimace he seemed unconcerned, his teeth bared in a feral snarl as he waited for an opening. The distracted mage had all her attention focused on Fenris, so it was almost too easy. Hawke sprinted towards the mage on sure and silent feet. With her right hand she stabbed at the mage’s side just as the mage started turning towards her. The mage was wearing some kind of armor, and Hawke’s wound kept her from putting her full strength behind the blow, but it was enough to make the mage stumble, and that was all Hawke needed. As the mage tried to regain her footing, Hawke was casting with her left hand, sending a blast of energy straight into the mage’s face. The force of the spell threw her back – onto Fenris’s waiting blade.

              The sound of flesh being ravaged by metal was something Hawke could never quite get used to no matter how many times she heard it. She inwardly winced as Fenris twisted his sword to make sure the woman was dead, then unceremoniously wrenched it out, allowing her blood to gush out onto the ground.

              Hawke had seen Fenris in many moods, but never quite like this. His battle rage had always been terrible but disciplined, even in the midst of the fiercest fighting. Now, it seemed to be held in place by a thread, the edges ragged and unraveling. His eyes were wild and restless, sweeping the area for any remaining enemies.

              “Fenris! They’re all dead!” she shouted, hoping to snap him out of it.

              “No.” Fenris looked at her, and she sensed him striving to gain a hold on himself. “I left one alive.”

              He strode over to one of the bodies and yanked the man’s head up by his hair. “Where is he?” he demanded.

              The man blinked and moaned something incomprehensible. Fenris rammed his face directly into the hard ground with a sickening crack, then jerked it back up again. Blood spurted over his face, and his eyes were wide with alarm.

              “I don’t know, I don’t know!” he blubbered thickly through his broken nose, apparently having decided Danarius’s secrets weren’t worth dying for. The words tripped over his tongue in his haste to get them out. “Hadriana brought us here! She’s in the holding caves to the north! I can show you!”

              Fenris was unmoved. “There is no need. I know the caves of which you speak.”

              “Then please, let me go! I don’t know anything, I was just following orders—”

              “You chose the wrong master.” Fenris took the man’s head between his hands and snapped his neck without a second thought.

              “Well, I’m sure he won’t make that mistake again.” Anders remarked sarcastically as he and Sebastian approached. Both of them were dusty and blood spattered but apparently unharmed.

              Fenris gave no sign of even having heard Anders. He stared down at the dead mage, his face blank and unreadable. Then he looked up at Hawke. She was startled by the naked despair in his eyes. “I was a fool to think I was free.”

              Hawke’s heart ached for him, but she forced herself to speak as neutrally as she could. “Do you know this Hadriana?”

              “One of Danarius’s apprentices. A parasite looking to scale the social ladder however she could. Not that that made her much different from the others.” Fenris spat. Hawke sensed something more personal behind the vitriol in his tone, but she refrained from asking any questions. “We must go after her before she knows her trap failed. If we give her time, she’ll just gather more people and strike at us again. Or worse, scurry back to Tevinter and out of our reach.”

              “Why should we care whether this Hadriana returns to Tevinter or has tea with the Arishok?” Anders argued. “We’re in no state to be going after anyone at this point.”

              “Shut up, Anders,” Hawke said automatically, exasperated by his predictable animosity.

              “Look at us, Hawke.” Anders retorted, refusing to be intimidated into silence. “We won by the skin of our teeth. Any mage worth their salt would make short work of us right now. Maker’s breath, you’re bleeding all over yourself, and I don’t have enough mana left to heal a bruise. No thanks to our fine warrior here, charging headfirst into an ambush and leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves!”

              Fenris blinked and looked at Hawke as if seeing her for the first time. “Hawke.” The rage faded from his eyes for a brief moment. “I… apologize.”

              “Don’t apologize, Fenris, I’m fine.” Hawke snapped, annoyed with Anders for drawing attention to her wound.

              “Even so, let’s be reasonable,” Sebastian suggested calmly. “Everyone here is dead, so this Hadriana most likely won’t find out her ambush failed right away. We have enough time to go back into Kirkwall and heal ourselves before we go pay her a visit.” He gestured to Fenris’s arm where a mage’s bolt had hit him. The skin was raw and blistering. “It would be unwise to attack an enemy in the state that we’re in.”

              “I can go on my own,” Fenris said stiffly, turning slightly so his wounded arm was facing away from the group. “This is my battle and no one else’s.”

              “Don’t be a bloody idiot, Fenris,” Hawke snapped, exasperated. “Do you want to be dragged back to Tevinter in chains?”

              He glared at her, but she caught a flash of fear in his eyes, making her regret her words. Still, she held her ground and met his eyes defiantly. “Glare all you want, but that is what will happen if you go alone.”

              In the end she convinced him that Hadriana could wait a few hours while they returned to Kirkwall to better prepare themselves for a confrontation. Hawke also resolved to herself that Anders was not coming with them. She didn’t think he would dare to actually hand Fenris over to the slavers, but clearly the possibility did not exactly displease him. Taking him along was going to be asking for trouble.

              Before they left, Hawke and Sebastian did a quick rummage of the dead for anything that might prove useful. Sebastian turned up several healing potions that Hawke emptied with a grateful sigh, feeling her wound close and the pain disappear in a matter of seconds. Hawke also found a few bits of paper that she tucked into her pockets for later after a cursory glance; nothing seemed of alarming importance, but a second look wouldn’t hurt. Fenris, having downed his own healing potion without a change in expression, radiated impatience from further along the road while Anders rolled his eyes in exasperation with the whole situation. Sebastian seemed surprisingly unruffled considering the fact he’d just risked his life fighting Tevinter magisters on behalf of a man he barely knew. Hawke had to admit to herself that she’d made some unfair assumptions about him. Apparently he was one of the few Chantry brothers that actually practiced the morals that he preached.

              As they strode along the path back to the city, she stole a sideways glance at Fenris. His mouth was drawn into a tight line and his eyes were distant, caught up in his own thoughts. They’d heard absolutely nothing from Tevinter during the past three years; if she was being perfectly honest, Hawke had more or less forgotten that Danarius was still out there, still a hidden threat to Fenris’s freedom. She would have assumed, had anyone reminded her of it, that Danarius had just given up after his initial attempts had failed. Upon reflection, it would have been a dangerously naïve assumption – Fenris wasn’t just any slave, after all. He was, from a mage’s perspective, a masterpiece – a testament to Danarius’s immense knowledge of magic and skillful spell craft, though it made Hawke ill to think of it from this perspective. No mage crazy enough to create something as ambitious and abhorrent as Fenris’s tattoos would give up on their work of art so easily.

***

              As soon as they reached Kirkwall, Hawke pulled Fenris aside. “I know you don’t want Anders to come with us, but we’ll need someone else to take his place. It would be foolish to confront a group of Tevinter mages without a full party.”

              Fenris shrugged, his mind clearly only half on what she was saying. “As long as we leave the abomination and the witch behind.”

              Hawke swallowed her frustration and tried to speak in as neutral a tone as she could manage. “I wouldn’t insult you by bringing Anders. But I doubt Hadriana is going to be the only mage we’ll have to confront. It would make things much easier if…”

              “That witch dabbles in demons and blood magic. Are you so sure she wouldn’t end up siding with the enemy?”

              “Don’t be an idiot, Fenris.” Hawke snapped, then bit off the rest of what she was going to say as she studied Fenris through narrowed eyes.

             He wasn’t even looking at her; he was staring into the busy street but not seeing anything, his mind a million miles away. The lines of his body were tense and hard, preparing for the confrontation to come, but something about the way he held himself gave Hawke pause. It wasn’t the usual focused anticipation that she was used to seeing from him before a battle. There was something brittle and desperate about his energy. Almost as if he was a creature being backed into a corner, rather than the predatory confidence he usually exuded. The thought that he was contemplating the possibility of being dragged back to Tevinter in chains made her heart ache, but she had no words of comfort she could offer him. _He would take no comfort from me anyhow, not now. Not when he’s just been reminded of how much magic has ruined his life._

              “What about Aveline, then?” Hawke offered cautiously after a prolonged silence. “She would be more than happy to help dispatch a group of slavers. I will go see her now, if you like.”

              Fenris finally turned to actually look at her, some semblance of rational thought returning to his green eyes. “No. It would be a favor on my behalf. I should ask her myself.”

              Hawke nodded, swallowing a sigh of relief. “We’ll regroup here at sunset.”

              “Sunset, then.” Fenris gave her a curt nod, then melted into the crowd without a second glance. Hawke watched him go, offering a silent prayer that he wouldn’t do anything rash in the few hours of daylight that remained.

              She parted with Sebastian and Anders after a terse conversation. Sebastian was more than willing to lend a hand – like all Chantry members, he had a deep-seated distrust of anything to do with Tevinter, and the chance to rain down divine justice on a few Tevinter slavers seemed to please him immensely. Anders said little, other than to remark dryly that he hoped Hawke was going to stuff everyone’s pockets with healing potions if they were going to be so foolish as to go to battle with an unknown enemy without a healer in their party. He did have a point, but Hawke knew it wasn’t one Fenris was likely to concede. She sent Anders on his way with a firm goodbye.

              Once she was back at her estate, Hawke shuffled through the notes they’d found in the dead mages’ robes. From what she could glean, it seemed that Danarius himself was definitely still in Tevinter and had sent a relatively small party to Kirkwall to get Fenris back. There was also mention of the need for caution due to the rising tensions in Kirkwall caused by the Qunari presence. Hawke guessed this was also the reason for the timing of the ambush; perhaps they’d wanted to extract Fenris before some kind of unrest broke out inside the city walls, adding an unwelcome complication to their plans.

              One of the notes gave her pause, her eyes scanning the scribbles with growing alarm. “ _His companion, Marian Hawke. Be wary of a direct confrontation with her; she is well-connected in Kirkwall and wields surprising influence with both the Viscount and the Templars. Also known to be dangerous in battle. Possibilities for blackmail – associates with lowlifes that hide from the authorities. Unreliable rumor that she is actually a mage. Unlikely, but perhaps worth looking into._ ”

              Hawke crumpled the note in her fist, trying to calm the surge of fear that was starting to bubble up inside her. _Unreliable rumor that she is actually a mage_. It didn’t matter that the Tevinter agents dismissed the rumor as most likely false – the fact that there was a rumor at all was enough cause for alarm. She pressed her lips together tightly. _Don’t panic like a silly bint, Marian Hawke_. _Don't do it._ Three years ago, she’d thought her life was unraveling into chaos – people discovering her secret, Bethany being taken to the Gallows… It had taken her time to establish the semblance of a stable life after coming back from the Deep Roads. Still, she’d thought she’d left all that uncertainty behind for good. But ever since that accursed dinner party (had that been just last night?) there was an all too familiar sense of events slipping away from her.

              She let out a long breath, focusing on the important adjective: _unreliable._ It was very unlikely the party of Tevinter agents would have been sharing this dubious information with anyone outside of their inner circle.  Of course, there was still the question of where the rumor had originated in the first place. On the one hand, there were so many strange rumors about Hawke floating about Kirkwall, thanks in part to Varric’s inexplicably popular melodramatic serials. It was quite possible this rumor was born of the same ridiculous sources that insisted Hawke was actually the love child of the current Viscount and his alleged Qunari mistress. On the other hand, it was common knowledge that Hawke had a mage sister in the Gallows. It wasn’t an enormous stretch to suspect Hawke of being one as well.

              Hawke uncrumpled the piece of paper and read it again, more slowly this time. There was, at least, one comforting thing about the note – Danarius clearly saw Hawke as someone to be wary of: someone that posed a credible threat to his plans. Another reason, perhaps, why he had not attempted to kidnap Fenris in the past three years. If Hawke’s unsavory reputation was something standing between Fenris and his former master, she would cheerfully allow Varric to write stories about her skinning her enemies alive and dining on their entrails for breakfast.

***

              Fenris strode into the guard barracks. He knew in the back of his mind it probably wasn’t the best idea to simply go barging in – his disheveled appearance made it clear he’d just been in battle – but at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was in luck though – a familiar figure pushed past the crowd of gawkers and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Fenris,” Donnic greeted him without wasting time on preamble, sensing the urgency of the situation. “The Captain is in her office.”

              Aveline looked up in sharp annoyance when they entered, but the expression quickly gave way to alarm as she took in Fenris’s presence. “Fenris. What’s happened? Where’s Hawke?”

              “Hawke is fine.” Fenris replied shortly. “May we speak alone?”

              Donnic gave a quick salute and left, closing the door gently behind him. Aveline was on her feet, walking out from behind her desk to stand in front of Fenris, tense and alert. “Well?”

              “Danarius has found me.” He tried to keep his voice cold and emotionless. If his companions knew the fear and panic that was roiling in his gut, they would disdain him for a coward, and rightly so. “We were ambushed by his lackeys near Sundermount.”

              Aveline’s eyes widened. “Your former master. Here, in Kirkwall?”

              “No. He’s sent his dogs, but he’s still safely back in Tevinter.” Fenris paced to the window and gripped the sill, staring out into the courtyard in an attempt to keep his emotions at bay. “The ambush was just part of their forces. There is another group, with Danarius’s right hand leading them. They’re based in the old holding caves just outside the city walls.”

              He pretended to watch the people milling about in the courtyard, trying to sort through the emotions twisting his insides. Rage and fear: there were plenty of both, gripping his intestines with an almost physical intensity. But underneath it all was something more insidious. He felt the specter of shame creeping in the darkest corner of his mind. Shame at the immense panic that had gripped him when they’d been confronted by the slavers. Shame at the impulse to flee, abandoning his companions to the mercies of the Tevinter mages. Shame at the thought that everyone would suddenly be reminded of who he really was – a lowly slave, once little more than the plaything of a magister. Who did he think he was, asking these people to put their lives on the line for him? They owed him nothing. Hawke owed him less than nothing – she had already saved him from Danarius once, and considering the agony he had caused her in the handful of years they’d known each other, it was beyond brazen for him to ask her now to--

              “Stop that now.” Aveline cut into his thoughts with her usual bluntness.

              He looked back at her, confused. “Stop…what?”

              “Your… brooding.” Aveline made an exasperated gesture. “I can’t tell exactly what you’re thinking, but I can tell you right now it’s most likely a load of nonsense. Where are we meeting Hawke?”

              Fenris blinked, still off balance. “I haven’t even asked you...”

              “Don’t be absurd, Fenris.” Aveline let out a sharp breath. “I’m not Varric – I don’t have a fancy way with words. So I’m just going to speak my mind.” She looked him in the eye, forcing him to meet her frank gaze. “I know we’re an odd group. In the beginning, the only real thing any of us had in common was Hawke. I owe Hawke a great deal.” Aveline’s expression softened slightly. “If I’m being honest, when we originally fought the men chasing you, I didn’t really know you, Fenris, and I didn’t really care to. I fought them because Hawke fought them. And because I hate slavers.” Her mouth quirked in a brief smirk. “But it’s different, now.”

              “How is it different?” he asked, unsure what she was leading to.

              Aveline rolled her eyes. “It’s different because now I know who you are, Fenris. You’re not just some crazy tattooed elf that Hawke has an inexplicable attraction to.” Despite his best efforts, Fenris felt his cheeks flush at this unexpected observation, and Aveline barked a laugh. “You’re a good man, Fenris. You do brood a lot, Varric’s right about that. Your insistence on squatting in Hightown is still one of my biggest headaches. But you are one of my few friends in Kirkwall. And if that bastard who calls himself your master has sent his dogs after you again, you don’t even need to ask, Fenris. I am at your side.”

              Fenris stared at her. _Is that what we are? Friends?_ He had never really stopped to think about his relationships with Hawke’s other companions; he’d just took for granted that they were all held together only by their individual connections to Hawke. He never would have called them _his_ companions, and if he’d ever needed help he would have gone to Hawke first, not any of the others. The fact that Aveline wasn’t even questioning that she was going to fight at his side was strangely overwhelming. As a slave, caring about anyone other than yourself had never ended well. He’d learned through hard experience that you needed to cut yourself off emotionally from everyone around you, unless you were a glutton for suffering. _I_

 _I am no longer a slave_. It had been true for years now, but sometimes his subconsciousness seemed afraid to acknowledge his freedom, as if acknowledging it would jinx it, make it disappear. But what was the point of being a free man if your mind was still in chains?

              Though his heart was full of things he wanted to say, in the end he simply stuck out his hand and hoped it was enough. “Thank you, Aveline.”

              She grinned and took his hand, grasping it firmly. “Don’t worry, Fenris, there’s no shame in needing your ass saved from time to time.”

              Despite the grimness of the situation, he couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “I will be sure to remind you of that the next time your ass is the one that needs saving, Aveline.”

              “You’ll be waiting quite some time for that, my friend.” Aveline smirked.

***

              It was near midnight when Hawke tucked her feet under the hem of her robe and snuggled deeper into the plush armchair, staring into the fire. She hugged the mug of mulled wine close. The warm smell of cinnamon and orange was a pleasant tingle in her nose. The heat of the fire filled her muscles, easing the aches of wounds both old and recent. _Look at me, a creaky old lady. I may as well start knitting my burial shroud._ She was absolutely exhausted and had just had a nice hot bath to wash the dust of the day off her, but she couldn’t sleep. She took a sip of wine and closed her eyes, contemplating the events of the past twenty-four hours.

              In the end, confronting the Tevinter agents in the holding caves had ended up being somewhat anti-climactic. They weren’t as many of them as Hawke had feared; perhaps they’d wanted to avoid drawing too much attention to themselves while in the Free Marches for fear of causing a diplomatic incident. And the bulk of them must have been with the ambush party.

               It had proved a heated battle but also a brief one. Without a proper mage in the party they had definitely been at a slight disadvantage, but both Aveline and Fenris had easily turned aside the assault of the enemy, allowing Hawke and Sebastian to skillfully target their weaknesses and make short work of them. It hadn’t been long before Hadriana was the only one still alive. No words had been spoken between the companions, but everyone had tacitly agreed to leave Hadriana for Fenris to deal with; it was all too clear that his animosity towards her was deeply personal.

              And then just before he’d struck the killing blow, she’d dropped the bombshell that Fenris actually had a sister. A sister! Still alive somewhere in Tevinter, apparently, and not a slave, though still working under a magister.

              Hawke took another sip of wine and pondered this revelation, trying to recall every detail of that scene. Had Hadriana been lying? It was impossible to know for sure. She’d been desperate to save her skin, that much was certain. Hawke knew all too well that people would do or say anything when their lives were hanging in the balance. Still, saying that Fenris had a sister seemed a bit too specific to be a spontaneous falsehood. All things considered, Hawke was inclined to believe it was true. Although in the end, what did it matter? There was no possible way Fenris could return to Tevinter without finding himself back in Danarius’s clutches. Trying to rescue his phantom sibling was not likely to result in a happy ending.

              Fenris had promised Hadriana he’d spare her life in exchange for information about his supposed sister, then without hesitation had killed the mage once she’d spilled everything she knew. Hawke wasn’t sure if the look of shock and terror in Hadriana’s eyes when her heart was torn from her chest would have made Fenris feel any better, but she _was_ sure that it was probably the least of what the bitch deserved.

              Afterwards, Fenris had just stood there, staring at the corpse with a blank expression. Hawke had tried to talk to him, but he'd been in no mood to listen.

              “All that matters is that I finally got to crush this bitch’s heart,” he’d spat. “May she rot, and all the other mages with her.”

              Those words had cut deep, but Hawke had had the sense to know that Fenris was not to be reasoned with in that moment. She's stopped both Aveline and Sebastian with a discreet gesture when they might have rebuked Fenris for his words. _This is not about_ me, she’d told herself. And so she’d bitten her tongue. But that hadn’t even been the worst of it.

_"Maybe we should leave,” she then suggested, tentatively putting a hand on his arm, but he shrugged her hand away. “I don’t want you comforting me,” he snapped._

_She stepped back, again willing herself not to react to his anger. “This doesn’t mean we can’t look for your sister,” she offered, trying to calm him down._

_“Doesn’t it?” Fenris snarled. “It would be suicide for me to return to Tevinter and you well know it. And what will my sister – if she even exists! – even be like after so many years in the clutches of a magister? What does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?”_

_Hawke had no answer to that. She just looked him silently, unable to defend herself in the face of his angst._

_Fenris turned away as if he could no longer bear to look at her. “I… need to go,” he muttered. And he’d gone._

              Hawke’s first impulse had been to head to Fenris’s mansion and wait for him to put in an appearance, but then she’d stopped herself. She was most likely the last person he’d want to see at this point. And at the end of the day, what could she comfort him with? What had they achieved? They’d defeated Danarius’s forces, true, but no doubt he would send more at some point. Would Fenris never be free of that evil bastard? And really, what could they do about this new information about his sister? Nothing that would make any real difference.

              Hawke closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the edge of her mug. _Maker, if you exist in any way shape or form, please watch over Fenris tonight. Please keep him from doing anything stupid._ She was fairly certain the immediate threat was now extinguished, so as long as he didn’t do anything completely insane, like set out for Tevinter alone and on foot, he wouldn’t be in danger. But long experience had taught Hawke to expect the worst and hope for something slightly better than catastrophe.

              Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” she called without looking up.

              “Mistress,” came the soft reply as the door opened. It was Orana, another result of their little adventure into the holding caves. They’d found an elven slave cowering in a corridor with a gruesome tale of how her father had sacrificed to blood magic by Hadriana and her minions. The girl had nowhere to go, so Hawke had really no choice but to offer her a place in her household. There had been a ridiculous misunderstanding with Fenris accusing Hawke of trafficking in slaves and Hawke having to stop herself from punching him in the kidneys in her outrage. She knew he’d not been himself since this had all started, but still… The fact that he could think her capable of such thing, after all these years of knowing her…

              “Mistress?” the girl ventured.

              Hawke blinked, realizing she’d been scowling at nothing, wrapped up in her own thoughts. “Sorry, Orana.” She spoke to the elf over her shoulder, her thoughts still tangled up in the day’s events. “And don’t call me that, you’re not a slave anymore. What is it?”

              “There’s a visitor here to see you.”

              Hawke’s eyebrows rose in disbelief, but rather than get up she settled herself more firmly into her chair. “Maker’s breath, it’s the middle of the bloody night. Tell whoever is at the door to get stuffed and come back tomorrow morning. As long as they are not on fire, it can wait.”

              “Hawke.”

              Hawke almost spilled her wine at the familiar voice. She stumbled to her feet, setting the mug down as she turned around. Orana was fidgeting in the doorway, but Hawke only had eyes for Fenris. He was standing just behind Orana, but she couldn’t read his face – it was past midnight and the house was dark. The firelight cast flickering shadows over his form, making him seem as insubstantial as a ghost.

              “Fenris. Come in.” She gestured vaguely. “You can go, Orana. You should go to bed. It’s very late.”

              “Yes, mistress.” The elf dropped a deep curtsy and backed out of the room.

              Fenris silently walked over to the fireplace and sat on one of the two chairs flanking it. His back was stiff, as if any moment he might get back up and flee. Hawke quietly closed the door and walked over to one of her cabinets, stalling for some time to think. So many questions were caught in her throat that she found herself literally biting down on her tongue lest she say the wrong thing and sent him back into the darkness of the night.

              “A drink?” she finally offered, taking out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. Without waiting for an answer, she approached him and set the glass down on the table, pouring out a generous measure. He took it and unceremoniously tossed the contents down his throat without a change in expression.

              Hawke carefully poured out another glass and attempted some levity. “You know, I don’t keep whiskey in my cabinet unless it merits some appreciation. Maybe you can try actually tasting it before making it disappear.”

              Fenris shot her an unreadable look, but he did deign to pick the glass up and give the whiskey a perfunctory swirl. “I owe you an apology,” he said in a low voice, staring into the amber liquid.

              “To me or the whiskey?” Hawke queried.

              He huffed in reluctant amusement before draining the glass and putting it back on the table. “I was not myself, earlier, when we were with Hadriana. I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you. It wasn’t you I was angry at.”

              Hawke was still standing; she had suddenly remembered that she was dressed in nothing but a robe, and she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to sit down without giving Fenris a generous view of bits she normally kept covered. The absurdity of the situation caused her to bite her lip lest she start giggling like a madwoman. Hastily she poured herself a shot of whiskey and knocked it back in one go. The whiskey burned pleasantly going down and created a knot of comforting warmth in her belly. “There’s no need to apologize, Fenris. But…” She hesitated, weighing her words. “Do you want to talk about it?” she ended up offering, inwardly cringing at how insipid she sounded.

              Fenris was staring into the fireplace and did not answer. Hawke was still, noticing the way the firelight flickered over his sharp profile, how his markings shimmered faintly in the shadows. She tried to remember what kissing him had been like. It had been so long ago she wondered what in her head was actual memory and what was imagination.

              “Hadriana was Danarius’s pet.” Fenris spoke to the fire, not looking at Hawke. “She was not the most talented pupil he had, but she shared his… cruelty, his desire to oppress those who were weaker. Of course, to him she showed nothing but subservience and worship. But she would go out of her way to torment any who were powerless to stop her. Often her cruelty was petty, but no less painful for those on the wrong end of it." Fenris's mouth twisted in something like bleak amusement. "She used to waken me in the middle of the night, set me to pointless, menial tasks. Her only goal was to rob me of my sleep. Sometimes she would cast spells on me while I slept with the sole purpose of tormenting me with nightmares.”

              He barked a humorless laugh, then lapsed into silence. Hawke stared into the fire, unable to put any of her thoughts into words. _Having her heart torn out was more mercy than she deserved._

             “Her torture of me was the least of it. She delighted in carrying out all sorts of horrific magic experiments on the slaves." Fenris spoke in a casual tone, as if he were discussing the peculiar habits of an unpleasant neighbor. "The point of her experiments was never to actually achieve anything. She just reveled in causing others pain.”

              “I’m sorry, Fenris, you don’t have to…” Hawke was already regretting asking him to rehash his painful past, but he ignored her, his calm demeanor contrasting oddly with the anguish burning in his green eyes.

              “There was… one instance when she wanted to test her hypothesis that blood extracted through prolonged torment was somehow more potent than blood gained through other means. She went out of her way to choose slaves that were … attached to each other. Parents and children. Friends and lovers. She’d hang them across from each other and slowly cut them into pieces.”

              Hawke found herself holding her breath in horror, and slowly let it out as quietly as she could. “Maker’s breath, Fenris.”

              “There was no Maker to hear the screams that night.” Fenris's laughter was sharp and brittle. “Of course, Hadriana could never torture me the same way she did the others. She knew Danarius considered me… _special._ ” He spat out the word like a curse. “But she was clever, our Hadriana. She would wake me in the middle of the night and order me to ‘supervise’ the slaves as she tortured them to death, knowing I had to obey her, knowing there was nothing I could do to save them.” He clenched his eyes shut, his fists so tight they were shaking. “I thought ripping her heart out would give me some peace. But instead it has filled me with… disquiet.”

              Hawke impulsively knelt before him and put her hands on his. He opened his eyes to stare at her, the pain in his face giving way slightly to surprise. “She’s dead now, Fenris. All she deserves now is to be forgotten.”

              “I didn’t want to kill her. Or at least, part of me didn’t.” Fenris looked at Hawke, conflict clear on his features. “When I knew she was alive, my first thought was _I can’t let her escape me, I’ll never rest until that bitch is dead._ But then I realized the power she still had over my thoughts. And I told myself, if I could let her go, that would prove that I am truly free of Danarius. That he can no longer manipulate me into doing what I did not wish to do. But in the end…” Fenris barked a harsh laugh. “I was never truly free.”

              Hawke stood up and put her hands on her hips, both alarmed and angered by Fenris’s fatalistic words. “Don’t be stupid, Fenris. You killed her because she needed to be killed. That is all. And if the chains in your mind are of your own making, then you can _un_ make them as well.”

              “You know nothing of what it is to be a slave!” Fenris snapped, getting to his feet to stand toe to toe with Hawke. His sharp green eyes caught the firelight and blazed with helpless fury. “Do you think I enjoy being unable to free myself of this darkness? It was they that put that darkness inside me, Danarius and Hadriana and their twisted, corrupt blood magic. But even killing her has given me no peace. Am I simply to ignore that and think happy thoughts to be free?” His words dripped with bitter sarcasm.

              “No one denies the enormity of what they did to you.” Hawke spoke intently, gripped by sudden fear that she was going to lose Fenris forever to this  spiral of despair. If he thought that he could never truly be free of Danarius and the trauma he’d caused, what was to stop him from marching back to Tevinter on a hopeless suicide mission after all? “But they can no longer touch you, Fenris. They can't force you to keep wearing those chains.” She grabbed his arms, willing him to listen as she looked up at him desperately. “You are no longer surrounded by enemies. Remember you did not fight Hadriana alone. You have friends. Friends who would guard your back and keep you from darkness.” His eyes widened, and Hawke pressed on. “What point is there dwelling on what was? What is there in your past but suffering and despair? You are a free man, Fenris, and you are not alone. How many times must you be reminded of that?”

              He stared down at her wordlessly, and suddenly she was aware how close they were to each other, how her fingers were digging into the flesh of his muscled forearms, how the front of her robe had loosened to reveal a narrow strip of bare skin from her neck to her navel. Heat crept into her cheeks, and she instinctively started to pull away. Fenris abruptly grabbed her arms, stopping her in her tracks. The feeling of his hard, calloused fingers pressing into her skin sent long-forgotten shivers up her spine. Tension thrummed through her body, making it difficult to breathe or to even think. Her skin prickled almost painfully with heightened sensitivity, and she could feel her heart thudding in her throat.

              “Hawke…” His voice was thick with emotion. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips, and without conscious thought she rose up on the tips of her toes to crush her mouth against his.

              He jerked back as if he’d been burned, staring at her with an unreadable expression that made her heart clench with a paralyzing moment of terrified regret. But then he pulled her close and kissed her with a ferocity that instantly filled her with a burning desire she’d long thought dead. His mouth was rough and demanding, stealing her breath, bruising her lips, and all she wanted was to wrap herself around him and feel his flesh against her own. Lust burned low in her belly, turning her limbs to water. Her breasts were crushed against the hard edges of his armor, but somehow the pain only served to heighten her longing.

              And then he pulled away abruptly, pushing her to arm’s length. She would have fallen to the floor if he hadn’t still been holding her arms in a vise-like grip. The loss of his closeness was an unexpected slap in the face. She tried to catch her breath as she stared at him defiantly. Her robe had fallen open and she saw that he was making a supreme effort not to look down. Her damned sense of humor threatened to give way to hysterical laughter, but she clenched her teeth and swallowed her mirth, waiting for him to speak.

              “Forgive me,” he said harshly. He held her so tightly that already she could feel her skin bruising, but she didn’t flinch. She wasn’t sure if he meant to thrust her aside or pull her back into his embrace. She wasn’t sure if _he_ even knew what he meant to do. His lyrium markings flared bright blue in the dim light, making him seem otherworldly and distant. “I have to go,” he muttered, half under his breath.

              “Don’t go,” was all she could manage to say, her entire body tense with a desire that made her ache. But even as she said it, she knew it was useless. He let go of her arms and backed away, unable to meet her eyes.

              Hawke waited until he had closed the door behind him. Then she lay on her side next to the fireplace, curling up so her knees were against her chest, focusing on the sensation of heat against her bare skin. A chaotic storm of emotions churned in her gut, but she was too tired to sort through them all. She closed her eyes, allowing the weariness of her body and soul and the warmth of the fire to gradually overwhelm her awareness, and eventually drifted off into a troubled sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to have to take a short break from writing this fic - life is pretty crazy at the moment. See y'all in 2020!


	11. All That Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A terrible tragedy brings Fenris to Hawke's side once more.

             “Marian, darling, come sit down with me for a bit.”

              Hawke paused in the hallway, on her way out. Her mother was sitting in the dining room, afternoon tea laid out in front of her, looking every inch the proper noblewoman in her lavender gown, embroidered along the edges with silver vines. “Is something wrong, Mother?”

              “Must something be wrong for a mother and a daughter to have tea together?” Leandra responded tartly with a raised eyebrow.

              Hawke bit her tongue for a moment. Her mother rarely asked her to sit down unless there was something specific she wanted to discuss. Recently she’d been trying to push Hawke into becoming more of a traditional “lady” now that they had the estate back and had firmly settled into the life of nobility. Or her mother had, at least. Becoming a fine lady was not something Hawke was particularly interested in, and she had tried to convey this to her mother as diplomatically as possible on various occasions. Unfortunately, diplomacy was not one of Hawke’s strong suits, especially when it came to speaking with her mother. Trying to have a civil conversation with her mother about these things often ended up giving Hawke an intense headache.

              “Of course not.” Hawke walked into the library and took a seat, determined to have a pleasant meal with her mother if it killed her. The spread did look nice. There were neatly cut sandwiches filled with thinly sliced roasted beef and a tureen full of what smelled like roasted pepper soup. She watched her mother gracefully pour the tea, the amber liquid cascading into the tea cups with not a drop splashed. Hawke, who was always supremely confident in her ability to wield her daggers with meticulous precision, always felt slightly uncomfortable around all this finery – the crisp, white linen tablecloths, the sparkling silverware, the delicate porcelain cups in their perfectly round saucers gilded with gold. And yet in the past three years she had grown to appreciate why her mother had missed this sort of life. Their house was an oasis of beauty and order in the hectic chaos that was the city of Kirkwall. Hawke found it equal parts stifling and comforting, depending on her mood.

              They ate their lunch while making neutral small talk about their next visit to Bethany and how Orana had been settling in. Leandra had been extremely dubious when the elf had shown up on the doorstep, but Orana had soon proven her worth – she was skilled, industrious, and eager to please. Her tendency to kneel on the floor and stare at the carpet whenever she was addressed had taken a while to fix, but now she seemed as much a part of the household as Bodahn or Sandal. Leandra had actually taken a particular liking to her and tried to encourage her to take time off and develop some hobbies of her own.

              “I was thinking of teaching her how to read.” Leandra murmured as she sipped her tea. “Or perhaps you could, Marian, you’d make a much better teacher than I would.”

              Hawke almost choked on her last bite of sandwich as she laughed. “That’s kind of you to say, Mother, but Maker knows that’s not at all true. If she wants to learn how to stab holes in a cutpurse, I’d be happy to help.”

              Her mother sighed and looked at her in a way that Hawke was all too familiar with. She mentally braced herself for the lecture she knew was forthcoming. “Marian, is it really necessary for you to still be stalking the streets of the city and involving yourself in such violence? We’re established here now. You don’t need to be working for petty cash anymore.”

              Hawke sighed and tried to keep her voice level. “Mother, the treasure we found in the Deep Roads isn’t some bottomless pit. We need a steady flow of income if you want to maintain this lifestyle.”

              It was a familiar argument, and one that Leandra usually gave up on after a few rounds. But this time she seemed more determined. She sat up straight in her chair with a steely glint in her eye. “Don’t treat me like a doddering old fool, Marian. I’m not senile quite yet.”

              Hawke blinked, nonplussed by her mother’s uncharacteristically direct response. “Do you think I’m lying to you?”

              “No, Marian, but I do think you’re being willfully stubborn about this.” Leandra folded her hands in her lap and looked at her daughter sternly. “We have enough money to invest in a business. Bodahn used to be a merchant; he knows what sorts of goods would fetch us money if we wanted to dabble in trade. Half of Kirkwall’s merchantry owes you favors. It wouldn’t be that difficult for us to find another way to support ourselves.”

              Hawke felt herself bristling, though she couldn’t have said why. Her mother was making a surprisingly logical argument. “I thought you wanted me to marry a rich nobleman to secure our fortunes. Have you already given up on that scheme?”

              She expected her mother to snap back at her, but Leandra just sighed. “Marian.” Then she did a most unexpected thing. She took Hawke’s hand and pressed it between her own. Hawke stared at her mother suspiciously. “Mother, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”

              “Don’t be cheeky, Marian.” Her mother gave her hand a light slap. “I’m just trying to clear up something between us.” She paused, looking fixedly at the back of Hawke’s hand as if she could find some wisdom etched into her skin. Hawke found herself holding her breath, wondering what her mother was finding so difficult to put into words.

              “I know you’ve thought me an insufferable hypocrite, trying to get you to marry a nobleman when I cut off ties with my entire family to be with your father,” Leandra finally said.

             Hawke couldn’t help but smirk a little in surprised amusement at her mother’s confession. “I might not have put it quite in those terms… but yes, it’s occurred to me.” She bit her lip, wondering if she dared to meet honesty with honesty. “Actually, it seemed to me that… you were regretting what you did, running away with Father. That was why you were pushing so hard for me to marry a rich so-and-so.”

             Leandra looked startled. “Oh, Marian.” She shook her head. “No, that is one thing I will never regret. But… it’s not the life I want for you, my darling.” She squeezed Hawke’s hand. “Marian, what I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry for how difficult life has been for you. When I had you, I was little more than a child myself. And then the twins came along, and they took up all my attention, and I left none for you. I suppose you just always seemed so capable, it never occurred to me you needed a mother just as much as Carver and Bethany did. It wasn’t fair, but I was too self-absorbed to know that at the time.” Her eyes started glistening with unshed tears, and Hawke found her own throat tightening in response. “When… when Carver died… I know I said some horrible things. And when Bethany was taken to the Circle… it felt like I was losing her too, and again I… I’m afraid I behaved badly. I’ve always used my pain as an excuse, never thinking about the pain you’d be feeling, too.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “It’s taken me far too long to realize that I’ve been a burden to you, Marian, and that is something a mother should never be.”

             “Mother,” Hawke tried to interrupt, but Leandra shook her head.

             “No, let me finish first. I can’t bear the thought of you having to bloody your hands for the rest of our lives just so we can live on the estate and keep up appearances. And initially I thought marrying you off to a rich nobleman would be best. At the very least, you wouldn’t have to be risking your life every other night for a few sovereigns.” Leandra barked a rather unladylike laugh. “But after that ridiculous duel you had with Lord Hollings I knew you’d be miserable living the life of a Kirkwall noblewoman.”

             Hawke couldn’t help but laugh a little at the memory. “I’m sorry, Mother, I know you were scandalized.”

             Leandra rolled her eyes. “When have you ever cared about scandalizing your mother?” she retorted, a hint of her usual crispness sharpening her voice. “But you are missing my point, Marian. I’m telling you that there are other ways for us to live comfortably without you having to stab holes in miscreants in the back alleys of Darktown. I don’t care if you live and die an eternal spinster – or even start a torrid love affair with that painted elf of yours, judging from what the servants have been gossiping about the past few weeks.”

             Hawke, to her dismay, found herself blushing with hot embarrassment at her mother’s unexpected pronouncement. _I’m a grown woman, not some naughty child caught with her hand in the cookie jar_ , she reminded herself. Out loud she said, “You don’t have anything to worry about, Mother; at this rate, dying as a spinster is my most likely option.”

             “You always did tend towards the melodramatic, Marian.” The words sounded critical, but Leandra’s tone was oddly pleased. “That is one trait you inherited from me, I’m afraid.”

             Hawke laughed again but found herself ending on a sigh. Her mother still held her hand, and with some horror Hawke realized she was on the verge of tears. She swallowed and blinked, trying to calm the tumult of emotions rising inside of her. “Thank you for telling me… all of this. I know I’ve… disappointed you in a lot of ways.”

             Leandra squeezed her hand. “If there was disappointment to be felt, it should have been felt by you, for having a mother such as I’ve been. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, darling. You don’t have to do this anymore. I know you think I’m good for nothing but throwing dinner parties, but I’ve thought this through very carefully, and Bodahn thinks it’s a sensible plan. I’ve spoken to Varric, too, you know.”

             Hawke stared at her mother as if she’d just announced her plans to elope with the Arishok. “You what?”

             “No need to be quite so surprised.” Her mother had a look of smug satisfaction on her face. “He is quite charming, you know. And a shrewd businessman, more to the point. He said he would be willing to invest in any business you had a mind to start. And I know you respect his opinion.” Leandra looked at her daughter gravely. “What more can I do to convince you to let me pull my weight for once? Put your daggers away, my darling, and let me worry about this family from now on. You’ve done your part, Marian.”

             Hawke couldn’t stop the tears welling over and dripping down her cheeks at her mother’s words. No witty retorts came to her lips; all she could do was sniffle like a child as her mother took out her fine lace handkerchief and dabbed at her daughter’s eyes. Hawke had always told herself she was past caring what her mother thought of her, but hearing her mother openly acknowledge what Hawke had secretly, resentfully harbored in her deepest of hearts brought a rush of relief so intense as to be painful. But it was a cleansing pain, a cathartic release from a burden she hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying all this time.

             Her mother clicked her tongue as she wiped Hawke’s tears away. “So melodramatic. You run around Kirkwall slaughtering men for daring to look at you sideways. Do your companions know the fearsome Marian Hawke is such a baby?”

             Hawke had to laugh through her tears, the sobs in her throat turning into the most undignified hiccups. She used her napkin to wipe her face as best she could, drawing a few shaky breaths in an attempt to regain some measure of equilibrium.

             “It _is_ a brilliant plan, Mother, and I think you should go through with it. I know both Varric and Bodahn will do everything in their power to help you.” She sniffled, sighed, and then looked her mother in the eye. “But I can’t stop what I’m doing, Mother.” She spoke over her mother’s attempts to interrupt her. “It’s not only about the money. You know the city is teetering on a knife’s edge these days. I can’t just sit on my hands while Kirkwall descends into madness. Or more madness that it’s already wallowing in at the moment, anyway.”

             “Why does that fall to you, Marian?” Leandra demanded. “What do you owe Kirkwall? You’ve given enough to this city, surely. And you are all I have left, Marian. Bethany belongs to the Circle, now, and Carver belongs to the Maker.” Her mother suddenly looked old and weary as she closed her eyes for a brief moment. “The thought of losing you too is more than I can bear.”

             Hawke clasped her mother’s hands in her own and did her best to give her a reassuring smile. “You’re not going to lose me, Mother. But I can’t leave it to someone else when I know I might be able to make a difference. No doubt it’s vain and arrogant of me to think so, I know. But really you have only yourself and Father to blame.” Leandra snorted at that. Hawke answered her mother’s wry amusement with a brief grin, but she was still in earnest. “Mother, we’ve both seen too much tragedy caused by people whose only sin was to look the other way when evil was being done. I truly would be a disappointment to you if that’s how I decided to live the rest of my life.”

             Leandra sighed and gently cupped Hawke’s face in her hands for a moment. “You get that from your father, I’m afraid, not from me. But that’s what I get for having children with a rebellious apostate, I suppose.” She gave Hawke a quick kiss on the cheek and released her. “Well, I won’t waste my breath arguing with you, then.”

             Hawke had to laugh in disbelief. “That’s it? You’re not going to nag?”

             “Don’t be ridiculous, Marian. I’m an old woman and my time is too precious to waste on fruitless endeavors.” Leandra finished her tea and put her cup down with a decisive click. “I take it you approve of the idea of setting up something more sustainable than a Darkspawn treasure horde, though, yes? I’ll meet with Varric again and start discussing the specifics.”

             Hawke laughed, genuinely amused at the idea of her mother and Varric as business partners. “The two of you will be aiming to overthrow the Viscount next.”

             Leandra arched a brow. “Don’t tempt me. He is rather useless, isn’t he?”

             “Let’s not start conspiring to commit treason quite yet, Mother,” Hawke said dryly as she got to her feet. She gave her mother a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m off to see Aveline.”

             As she left the estate, Hawke felt better than she had in quite a while. Her relationship with her mother had always been a rocky one at best, a pendulum always swinging precariously between “simmering resentment” and “strained affection.” It seemed silly to feel so relieved after a good cry over a pot of tea – after all, the biggest problems in her life at the moment were still very much unchanged. The Qunari were still in Kirkwall, the Templars and the mages were still at each other’s throats, and Fenris was still avoiding her like she had the taint. Still, it was impossible not to take some pleasure in the revelation that her mother thought of her with something other than bitter disappointment. _Can my expectations for life sink any lower?_ Hawke smirked to herself and shook her head. It was best not to tempt Fate with such a question.

***

              “Those are lovely flowers, Mother, where did you get them?” Hawke paused to admire the white lilies her mother was carefully arranging in a vase in the foyer. Orana hovered at Leandra’s side, dutifully collecting stray stems and leaves and putting them into a neat little pile.

              Leandra arched a brow at her daughter. “Do you think you’re the only one around here with admirers?” she queried dryly, but a faint pinkness in her cheeks gave her away. “I know you think I’m a relic, but I’m not quite one foot in the grave yet.”

              “I’ve never said anything of the sort.” Hawke defended herself indignantly, but she couldn’t help teasing her mother a bit further. “If you have a gentleman friend who is familiar enough to be sending you flowers, you really should be asking him to dinner.”

              “I could say the same thing to you.” Leandra carefully placed another lily in the vase while looking at her daughter out of the corner of her eye. “What has happened to Fenris? I haven’t seen him around for at least a fortnight.”

              Hawke shrugged and did her best to look unconcerned, ignoring the painful way her throat tightened whenever she thought of the last time she’d seen him. “I must not have been charming enough to hold his interest, I’m afraid.”

              She felt her mother scrutinizing her and braced for more questions, but Leandra simply turned back to her flowers. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Marian. It’s the way your father used to look at me. Like a starving man eyeing a drumstick.”

              “Mother, please.” Hawke groaned, trying to shake the mental images out of her mind.

              Leandra looked at her with amusement but mercifully changed the subject. “Are you going out for dinner?”

              “Aveline’s sent a message wanting to see me,” Hawke replied. “I doubt it’s for a natter over tea, so I expect I’ll be home late.”

              Her mother made a _hmph_ of mild disapproval, but all she said was, “Do be careful.”

              “I always am, Mother.” Hawke kissed her mother’s cheek and left her to her flowers.

***

              “I told you we shouldn’t have left him alive.”

              Hawke ignored Isabela and threw herself sideways into her favorite armchair, dangling her legs over the armrest with an exhausted sigh. Orana hovered in the doorway. “Messere Bodahn wanted me to ask you if you needed anything, my lady.”

              “Some tea and sandwiches would be perfect, Orana, thank you.” Hawke said with her eyes closed. It had been a long two days since she’d been home, and she was hungry enough to start gnawing on the furniture.

              “Oooh! Do you have any scones like the ones you baked last time? Those were lovely.” Merrill perked up from where she had settled next to the fireplace.

              “Yes, my la- I mean, M-Merrill, yes, we do, I’ll bring some right away.” Orana’s words tripped over her tongue as she hurriedly backed out of the room.

              “I don’t know why she finds it so hard to call me by my name,” Merrill wondered, hugging her knees to her chest. “It’s not very hard to pronounce, is it?”

              “Never mind that now.” Isabela scowled. “Hawke! Are you listening to me?”

              “Oh, shut up already.” Aveline was sitting on the sofa, her posture as straight as if they hadn’t just spent the better part of two days battling demons and blood magic. Only the shadows under her red-rimmed eyes gave away any sign of fatigue. “What’s done is done. At least now we can track DuPuis down and get more answers out of him.”

              “His name is rather horrendous, though, isn’t it?” Hawke murmured sleepily. “Maybe I should have killed him just on principle. With a name like that he couldn’t have been up to any good.”

              Isabela made a disgusted noise and plopped down next to Aveline. “Who knew Marian Hawke was getting soft in her old age? I thought our style was stab first and ask questions later.”

              Hawke opened one eye and squinted at Isabela indignantly. “You’re older than me, you hag.”

              “Don’t change the subject. Why did you let that slippery bastard live? You know he was up to no good.”

              “I’ve no doubt of that.” Hawke reluctantly pulled herself up into a sitting position to face Isabela’s ire. Isabela wasn’t wrong; even now, Hawke was doubting the wisdom of her mercy. But for some reason, in the moment when the mage had been protesting his innocence, she’d felt so weary of the nonstop killing that had become a part of her life ever since she’d come to Kirkwall. Maybe her mother’s admonishments were having an effect on her after all. In any case, she’d found herself inclined to give the man the benefit of the doubt.

             She realized Isabela was still staring at her impatiently and tried to pull her thoughts back on track. “But I don’t think he’s the one we’re looking for. He seemed too… sane, I suppose. I’m certain he’s lying about _why_ he’s looking for the murderer, but I am fairly certain he’s not the murderer himself.”

              “I hope you’re right, Hawke. Poor Emeric.” Aveline sighed. “He was on to something, after all. But the murderer hasn’t killed anyone since Ninette, as far as we know. Why has he resurfaced now? It’s an odd business all around.”

              Just then, Orana came in with a heavily-laden tray of tea, sandwiches, and scones. “Can we eat some scones first and worry about blood mages later?” Merrill asked plaintively.

              Isabela laughed fondly, reaching over to fluff Merrill’s hair. “At least someone has their priorities straight.”

              They had only just poured their tea and started to devour their food when Bodahn appeared in the doorway. “I’m sorry, my lady, but your uncle is here to see you.”

              “Marian!” Gamlen abruptly pushed past Bodahn, clearly impatient to speak to Hawke, then paused in some confusion to see the four women in the middle of their dinner. “Oh.”

              Hawke hastily swallowed a bite of bread. “Uncle? Is something wrong?”

              He refocused his attention on her. “Marian. Where’s Leandra?”

              “Mother?” Hawke stared back at him, then at Bodahn. “Isn’t she home, Bodahn?”

              “She was supposed to come see me for tea.” Gamlen interrupted. “We always have tea together on Wednesdays. But she never came, and she never sent word. You know how unlike her that is.”

              Hawke felt the first tinglings of foreboding on the back of her neck, but she refused to acknowledge it, resolutely remaining calm. _Don’t panic, Marian, not every bloody thing has to be a sign of impending disaster… Mother is a grown woman, she doesn’t have to report all her comings and goings._ “Bodahn, do you know where Mother went today?”

              Bodahn nodded anxiously. “She left the house earlier today than usual, my lady. I think… she went to meet a gentleman before her engagement with Messere Gamlen.”

              “Leandra has a fancy man?” Gamlen looked surprised. “She never said anything about it to me. Did you know?” He looked accusingly at Hawke.

              “She doesn’t have to report every detail of her private life to you, you know.” Hawke retorted in defense of her mother. “Bodahn, has she said anything about this gentleman? Do you know where she went to meet him?”

              “I think they usually go for walks around the city.” Bodahn furrowed his brow. “She’s never mentioned his name to me, my lady. I know he sends her flowers often.”

              “White lilies.” Orana had been hovering in the hallway, fidgeting with her apron. She spoke up in a tremulous voice. “He likes sending my lady white lilies.”

              “Yes, I know that, but--” Hawke abruptly stopped speaking, her breath catching in her throat, the ominous tingle in the back of the mind suddenly turning into a blinding whiteness of absolute, terrifying clarity. _White lilies._

_No. It can’t be. Not even the Maker would have such a cruel sense of humor._

              “Hawke!” Aveline’s bark cut through the blankness filling her consciousness. “Something’s occurred to you. What is it?”

              “It was three years ago, and such an insignificant detail…” Hawke spoke absently, her voice sounding unfamiliar and distant to her own ears. “Emeric mentioned it just in passing, that the mage who disappeared had been receiving white lilies from a secret lover.”

              There was a sharp intake of breath from her companions. “What are you babbling about, girl? What mage?” Gamlen demanded.

              “Leandra may have been… taken by a… a man we’ve been investigating.” Aveline replied shortly. “He’s murdered two women we know of already.”

              “A murderer?” Gamlen gaped in disbelief. “What would a man like that want with Leandra? That’s preposterous!”

              “We have to find that arsehole, DuPuis.” Isabela snapped, ignoring Gamlen. “He knows more than he’s telling, I know it.”

              Hawke turned to her companions. They all looked back at her silently, tensing with readiness. She had to take a moment to wrestle with the mindless panic threatening to cloud her senses. _Mother didn’t raise you to flap around at the first sign of trouble, Marian Hawke. Don’t disappoint her now._ “Isabela, Merrill and I will go to Darktown and talk to DuPuis,” Hawke decided. “Aveline, if you could…”

              “You don’t have to say it, Hawke.” Aveline was already striding towards the door. “My guards will be on the lookout within the hour. I’ll be in touch.”

              “I refuse to believe this sensationalist nonsense,” Gamlen snapped as Aveline took her leave. “I’m going to retrace Leandra’s usual route and see if anyone has seen her.” He turned on his heel and left before Hawke could form a reply. She watched him go silently. _At least he won’t be underfoot, then._

              “What shall we do, my lady?” Bodahn asked, worry etched on his normally placid face. Orana hovered a step behind him, looking on the verge of tears.

              “It’s best if someone stays home, in case Mother turns up here.” Hawke spoke gently to both of them. “I will send a messenger as soon as we know something. If she does come home, Bodahn, send word to Varric at The Hanged Man.”

              As Hawke left the estate, her two companions silently flanking her, she found herself offering up something between a prayer and a curse. _Maker, don’t you dare do this to me, you heartless bastard. You’ve taken my father, my brother, your bloody Templars have my sister. Leave me my mother, that’s all I ask of you. After all the blood I’ve shed battling demons and blood mages for the good of Kirkwall, surely that is not too much to ask._

***

              Fenris found himself abruptly awoken from a troubled sleep by an insistent pounding at the door. He was on his feet out of instinct more than anything else, his sleep-fogged mind still trying to make sense of what was happening. It took him a few moments to realize that it was still the middle of the night.

              The pounding was alarmingly loud, but he still took a moment to peek out a window before heading downstairs. The dim streetlights glinted off the familiar armor of the City Guard. _Aveline_. It was impossible to tell her expression from this distance, but really there was only one reason she would be trying to break down his door at this hour. _Hawke_.

              He sprinted downstairs and opened the door, a sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. She pushed past him and closed it behind her without even a greeting. “What’s happened?” he demanded. “Where’s Hawke?”

              She eyed him for a moment, and he realized how disheveled she looked. Her hair was sticky with sweat, her armor spattered with blood, her eyes heavy with fatigue. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her look so… beaten. He felt his breath catch in his throat.

              “Hawke’s fine.” Aveline said flatly, reading the sudden panic in his eyes. “Or… she is alive, anyway, and unharmed.”

              Fenris let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “But something has happened.” It wasn’t a question.

              Aveline gave a short, bitter laugh. “Yes. Something has happened. Leandra is dead.”

              Fenris blinked, caught off-guard. Whatever bad news he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this. “Leandra? Hawke’s mother? Dead?” He took in Aveline’s exhausted state once more, still unable to fathom what had happened. “Was the estate attacked?”

              Aveline told the story in a terse, almost emotionless tone of voice that belied the haunted pain lingering in her eyes. How they had tracked down DuPuis originally thinking he had been the killer behind the gruesome death of that Orlesian woman three years ago. How Hawke had allowed him to live when he’d insisted he was innocent, only to come home to discover her mother had mysteriously gone missing. How they’d realized too late that Leandra’s secret suitor was actually the killer from all those years ago. They’d hunted down DuPuis and he’d led them to the real killer, for all the good it had done them. The real killer had ended up being another blood mage, the one-time mentor of DuPuis himself. When they’d found Leandra, she was beyond saving; her head had been cut off and sewed back on to a body created from a motely of other women, shambling around in a grotesque parody of life, the horrific fantasy of a diseased mind seeking to bring his dead wife back to life.

              After enduring the perverted cruelty of Danarius and Hadriana, Fenris had long thought himself inured to the depravity that humans were capable of inflicting upon one another. But even he found himself recoiling at Aveline’s tale, his skin prickling with horror and disgust. “Did… did Leandra recognize Hawke, in the end?”

              “Briefly.” Aveline closed her eyes and swallowed, her lips pressed together as if to keep her emotions from spilling out unchecked. “She… was able to say good bye, before… before Hawke had to end it.”

              Fenris clenched his jaw against a fervent curse. “And the blood mages?”

              “Both dead.” Aveline opened her eyes, her voice hardening into iron. “A kinder end than either of them deserved.”

              Fenris nodded, feeling an uneasy sense of all-too familiar guilt at not having been there at Hawke’s side. It was irrational, he knew – he wasn’t so arrogant as to believe his presence would have made any sort of difference. Still, it felt as if he’d failed Hawke somehow. After their last… conversation following the death of Hadriana, Fenris had deliberately avoided Hawke – not just being alone with her, but even being in common company. He had felt an overwhelming need to apologize to her for what had happened that night, but he had been unable to clearly articulate what he was apologizing for, and until he was able to do that, he’d felt it best he stayed away. Was that still the right thing to do?

              “And… Hawke?” he finally ventured.

              “She is at home.” The anger left Aveline’s face, leaving only lines of weariness and sorrow in its wake. “Gamlen has gone to break the news to Bethany. Bodahn is seeing to the funeral arrangements. The rest of us are keeping an eye on Hawke.” Aveline looked Fenris in the eye. “She needs you, Fenris. You should go to her.”

              Fenris shifted uneasily on his feet, looking away. “I… don’t know if she’ll even wish to see me.”

              Aveline made an exasperated sound. “Maker knows the melodrama between the two of you would put Varric’s serials to shame, but Fenris – now is not the time.” She stepped closer to Fenris, forcing him to meet her glare. “Hawke has just witnessed her mother’s body chopped into pieces and reanimated with blood magic. She had to plunge her own dagger into her mother because that was the only way she could help end her pain. Surely you can manage to stop brooding for a few hours to be there for her at a time like this.”

              “What help do you possibly think I can offer her?” Fenris asked shortly. He meant to make his words harsh, but they sounded almost plaintive to his own ears. He realized that, deep down, he was actually afraid. Afraid to be faced with a Hawke he could neither aid nor comfort. He could face her anger, perhaps even her hatred, but he wasn’t sure he could face her pain.

              Aveline sighed. “Just be at her side, Fenris. She needs to remember she is not alone. She has done the same for you – for all of us – more times than any of us can count. It’s the very least we owe her.”

              Fenris closed his eyes briefly, steeling his resolve against the cowardly urge to stay in the safe, solitary darkness of his mansion. _It’s the very least we owe her._ He then met Aveline’s eyes with a nod. “Let’s go.”

***

              He found Hawke in her bedroom, sitting in front of the fireplace with her knees tucked under her chin. She was so close to the flames that her face was rosy red from the heat. She was wearing a robe with a blanket thrown over her shoulders, but her feet were bare, and it looked as if she had merely changed out of her armor without bothering to wash.  Her dark hair was loose and fell about her shoulders in careless, tangled waves, framing a face that was unnaturally pale and still. Her amber eyes were wide and staring into the flames with a terrifyingly blank expression.

              Fenris paused for a moment in the doorway, unsure how to proceed. In the end, he simply walked over and sat down next to her on the hearth. The heat was uncomfortably intense on his skin. His fingers twitched with the desire to brush Hawke’s hair away from her face, but he willed them to be still. “Hawke.”

              She didn’t look at him. “Fenris.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “It’s been a while.”

              The disconcerting emptiness in her eyes reminded him of her despair upon hearing Bethany had been taken to the Gallows while she’d been trapped in the Deep Roads. Only this time it seemed far worse. Hawke was physically in front of him, but it felt as if she wasn’t really there at all. The blankness in her face made Fenris feel as if he were looking into a deep abyss, knowing Hawke was at the bottom but unable to find any trace of her at all.

              “I don’t know what to say,” he found himself confessing to her with unexpected candor, “but I am here.”

              She did look at him then, and he saw a crack in her mask, the carefully constructed dam threatening to give way to a rush of pent-up emotions. “Just say something.” Hawke demanded in her broken whisper. “Anything.”

              Fenris felt a sharp pain in his chest as he looked into Hawke’s face, her familiar features distorted by lines of grief. “They say that… death is a journey,” he stammered, inwardly cursing himself as the inane words came stumbling off his tongue. “Does that help?”

              Hawke stared at him for a moment, and even in her agony he could see the barest gleam of amusement flicker across her face. “Not really, no.” For a moment she sounded halfway normal. “A journey to where?”

              Fenris shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a meaningless nothing people say, I suppose.”

              Hawke made a small noise that might have been a ghost of a chuckle. “Small talk was never your strong point, Fenris.”

              They both fell silent, their eyes locked with each other in what seemed to Fenris like an eternity. It would have taken a far more eloquent mind than his to put words to the emotions clenched in his throat. “Hawke.” He finally spoke, his voice rougher than he’d intended. “I am sorry.”

              “I was always a disappointment to her, you know.” Hawke spoke lightly, her casual tone an odd contrast to the grim lines of her mouth. “I wasn’t able to save Carver from the Darkspawn. I couldn’t keep Bethany safe from the Templars. That was what convinced me, you know, to start practicing my magic. I thought, the Maker gave me these abilities, didn’t He? That must mean He wants me to make use of them. To protect the ones I care about. Magic can’t be that bad if it comes from the Maker, can it?” Hawke laughed humorlessly. “The Maker certainly has a sense of humor, doesn’t he? Just to drive home the message that the great Marian Hawke can’t even keep her own family safe. It certainly was an effective delivery.”

              “Hawke,” Fenris tried to interrupt, but she kept rambling, almost as if she’d forgotten he was even there.

              “Do you know she tried to convince me to abandon this life? To settle down and become a merchant.” She huffed in strained amusement. “And I gave her a ridiculous excuse, saying I couldn’t stand by and do nothing while Kirkwall hurls itself towards its own destruction.”

              “That doesn’t strike me as a ridiculous excuse.” Fenris said evenly.

              Hawke emitted a brittle laugh. “Doesn’t it? How arrogant is it of me to think I can save a city when I couldn’t even save my mother from being butchered?”

              Her words ended on a stifled sob. The tears were flowing freely down her cheeks, and she pressed her hands against her eyes as if attempting to stop them from coming. Fenris turned towards her and carefully wrapped his hands around her wrists, slowly pulling her hands away from her face. She stared up at him, her face contorted with her efforts to keep her grief contained.

              “I cannot ease your pain, Hawke.” He spoke as gently as he knew how. “But I can help you bear it for a short while, if you’ll let me. Don’t let it fester inside you.”

              Hawke stared at him through her tears, her jaws slowly unclenching until a small sob escaped her. Without thinking, he pulled her close until she was curled up against his chest and wrapped his arms around her protectively. He nestled her head beneath his chin and stroked her tangled hair. He could feel the tension slowly drain out of her, giving way to a tormented weeping that wracked her whole body with sobs. She screamed her sorrow and fury raw against his shoulder, and he found himself closing his eyes tightly against his own emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He had no right to grieve. This was Hawke’s grief, and the last thing she needed was for him to be swept up in her storm. He tried to empty himself of all his emotions – it was something he had plenty of practice doing – keeping his heartbeat steady and his breathing calm as Hawke raged and wept in his arms.

              It was impossible to know how much time passed. Gradually, her helpless anger gave way to exhaustion and a quieter despair. Fenris used the corner of the blanket to gently wipe her face, damp with tears and sweat, as she shuddered with the aftermath of her violent bout of grief, still sobbing intermittently against him. He held himself absolutely still, other than to stroke the wet tendrils of hair away from her cheeks, ignoring the tingling in his legs from staying in one position for so long. It was only when he heard her breathing even out into a steady, predictable rhythm that he allowed himself to wince and shift, allowing the blood to return to his feet.

              Slowly, slowly, he managed to shift her weight so he could scoop her into his arms and move her to her bed. Hawke barely stirred in the process. He carefully shifted her legs so she was under the covers (resolutely keeping his gaze from lingering on her bare skin), then gently pulled the covers up to her chin. Her face was tilted towards him, streaked with tears but for the moment at peace, her lips slightly parted as she breathed in, then out, mercifully unconscious to the world.  He hesitated, then put his hand on her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing her cheekbones, his heart twisting at the memory of her in his arms, her soul in tatters. But there was nothing more he could do for her. Impulsively, he bent over her and brushed his mouth against hers, the taste of her warm tears bitter on his lips. Then he turned around and left the room, closing the door silently behind him.


	12. Questioning Beliefs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris summons up the courage to face his fears. Does it end well? Not bloody likely.

“Orana?” Hawke knocked gently on the doorframe of the kitchen before entering. Orana was bent over a table, laboriously scratching letters onto a piece of scrap paper. She jumped up at Hawke’s intrusion, looking flustered. “My lady! I’m so sorry, I promise I’ve finished all my chores…” 

“Calm down, Orana, I’m not here for an inspection.” Hawke glanced around the kitchen, noting the spotless floor and the neatly arranged pots and pans. “And I apologize for intruding on your free time, but I was hoping I might ask a favor of you.” 

“Of course, my lady.” 

The elven girl trotted dutifully at Hawke’s heels, down the corridor, up the staircase, until they ended up in front of what was once Leandra’s room. Orana paused and glanced up at Hawke timidly. “Do you… do you need me to clear the room out, my lady?” 

Instead of replying right away, Hawke carefully opened the door and walked in. The room was tidy but otherwise untouched since Leandra had last been in it, although Hawke noted with relief that someone had had the sense to dispose of the vase of white lilies. A faint hint of herbs lingered in the air; Leandra had kept sprigs of rosemary and lavender between her clothes to keep them smelling fresh. On her writing desk was a piece of parchment with notes written in her precise penmanship: a list of Kirkwall merchants she must have been meaning to contact with regards to whatever she’d been planning with Varric and Bodahn. The familiar curlicues started to blur in Hawke’s vision as she stared down at her mother’s handwriting, as fresh and crisp as if she’d just written it yesterday, and she quickly turned away, blinking rapidly to stop the tears from overflowing. 

“I miss her too, my lady.” Orana ventured, still standing near the doorway, looking at Hawke with sympathy brimming in her hazel-green eyes. “It still seems… strange, that she’s gone.” 

“It does.” Hawke agreed quietly. “But she is, and I suppose we’d better get used to it.” She sighed and cleared her throat, surreptitiously wiping a tear that had escaped despite her efforts. “I don’t want you to clear out all her things just yet, Orana. But we do need to start somewhere, I suppose… if you could go through her clothes… maybe we can ask Merrill if anyone in the alienage needs some new gowns. We’ll have to be careful, though, about giving away the finer ones; we don’t want anyone to be accused of stealing. Maybe separate out the fancier gowns from the more sensible ones…” Hawke trailed off, realizing she’d started to ramble. She could navigate the tunnels of Darktown and track down runaway apostates, but dealing with the practical aftermath of her mother’s death always left her feeling as if she were flailing in unknown waters. 

Orana suddenly stepped forward, squaring her shoulders. “I’ll take care of it, my lady. Don’t worry. If I need help, I’ll ask Messere Bodahn, or I can send word to M-Merrill about donating gowns to the alienage.” 

Hawke smiled at her, feeling a rush of gratitude. “You almost managed to say her name without stammering that time. We’ll make a free elf out of you yet, Orana.” She put her hand on the elf’s shoulder. “Thank you. I appreciate this very much.” 

“Of course, my lady. It’s no bother at all.” Orana colored and dipped a small curtsey. 

Hawke left the room with a feeling of mingled sadness and relief. The past month or so had all seemed like a blur, but finally life was starting to come into focus once more, bit by bit. Leandra’s funeral had been a quiet affair: Hawke had made it clear to everyone involved that she didn’t want a spectacle of any sort, and by some miracle her friends had managed to make it so. Hawke had invited only a small handful of nobles, the few she thought Leandra had actually liked rather than simply tolerated. The Viscount sent his condolences and a lovely funeral wreath (no lilies, thank whatever gods there were). Actually, flowers had poured in from all corners of Kirkwall, to Hawke’s vague surprise; she’d always thought her work had earned her more enemies than allies, and she’d only been half-joking when she’d asked Bodahn to search them for poison. She was grateful for the public show of sympathy, though more for Leandra’s sake than anything else. It was the kind of thing that would have pleased her mother. Bethany had been there as well, escorted personally by Knight-Captain Cullen himself. Hawke had never thought she’d feel so grateful to the stern-faced Templar, who seemed sincere as he gruffly conveyed his condolences. Bethany had clung to Hawke throughout the entire funeral, weeping steadily without pause, and Hawke had somehow found the strength to be calm and comforting: the perfect big sister.  _It’s what Mother would have expected of me._  The Chantry service had been full of empty platitudes that made her want to curse the Maker as thoroughly as she knew how, but instead she’d clenched her teeth and hugged her sister close, somehow finding the patience to endure. 

It had helped, a little, that all of her friends had been there; even Anders had risked it, shaving his stubble and changing into servant livery to hide in plain sight amongst the kitchen staff. She’d never been so grateful for her companions, who had done their utmost to take care of all the exhausting, tedious details that came with the death of a noblewoman in Kirkwall. Sebastian had seen to planning the Chantry service. Aveline had organized a small contingent of the City Guard to keep an eye on the estate, lest troublemakers try to take any advantage of Hawke’s vulnerability. Varric and Bodahn had settled all of Leandra’s accounts and made sure what little she had was transferred to Hawke’s name. Isabella, Anders, and Merrill had stayed with Hawke for almost a week, coaxing Hawke to eat, to bathe, to sleep, keeping her company when she wanted company and leaving her alone when she did not. As for Fenris… 

She sometimes still wondered if his presence had been some sort of fever dream, though Aveline later assured her that he had indeed been to see her that fateful night, when Hawke had still been trying to come to terms with the horror of it all. Her emotions had been so overwhelming that she’d been almost numb with the effort to keep herself from falling apart, fearing she’d never be able to put herself back together again. It was only in the safety of Fenris’s arms she’d been able to give herself permission to let go, to finally allow herself to be shattered by the pain she’d been holding at bay. And slowly, over the past few weeks, she’d managed to gather the shards of herself and put the pieces back where they belonged. She would survive after all, though the scars would never quite heal. Nor did she want them to. 

Fenris hadn’t reappeared after that night until the funeral, where he’d kept a safe distance and vanished as soon as the ceremony had ended. Hawke’s grief over her mother had kept him out of her mind for the most part, but now she vaguely felt she owed him a visit to say… thank you? For what, exactly?  _Thank you_ _, Fenris,_ _for_ _holding me while I screamed like a lunatic_ _._ _I hope you’ve forgiven me for trying to have my wicked way with you the last time you paid me a visit in the middle of the night._ Hawke couldn’t help smirking in quiet amusement at the absurdity of it all. 

“Hawke.” Anders’s voice cut into her musings, and Hawke realized she was standing in the middle of the staircase, one foot hovering over the next step. Anders was at the foot of the stairs, looking up at her with a furrowed brow. “Are you all right?” 

“I’m fine, sorry, just lost in thought.” She descended the rest of the stairs, greeting Anders with a hug and a friendly kiss on the cheek. “You don’t have to stop by every day, you know. Merrill was just here for lunch. I’m a grown woman; I can eat a meal or two by myself.” 

Anders rolled his eyes. “Pardon me for being concerned about a friend. Fortunately for you, I can’t stay long. I just dropped by to make sure you’re all right.” 

“I’m fine, really.” Hawke gave him a bright smile that was only slightly forced. “I just need to get out and stab a few people. That always lifts my mood.” 

Anders snorted. “Well, lucky for you, people in need of a stabbing are never in short supply in Kirkwall.” His dark eyes searched her face as if looking for an answer to something, and Hawke abruptly found herself annoyed by his intense scrutiny.  

“What is it, Anders? Do I have something between my teeth?” 

He hesitated, ignoring her attempt at jest. “You… you haven’t really talked about the magic that killed your mother. I didn’t want to press you before, not so soon after… after everything that happened. But… you know you can talk to me about it, if you like.” 

“What is there to talk about?” Hawke snapped. She paused to draw in a breath, then let it out as evenly as she could. She found herself far more inclined to snap at people these days.  _Though_ _surely_ _having one’s mother_ _mutilated_ _by a blood mage_ _counts as_ _a legitimate excuse_ _for being a_ _tiny_ _bit short-tempered?_  

“She was killed by blood magic,” Hawke continued more calmly. “It’s not something either of us have ever condoned, let alone dabbled in. What more is there to discuss?” 

Anders shifted uncomfortably but seemed determined to press his point. “You’ve never been… entirely accepting of your own magic, Hawke. I’m just concerned that the manner of Leandra’s death… might have pushed you back in the wrong direction.” 

“And what direction is that?” Hawke put her hands on her hips, feeling her temper get the better of her despite her efforts. “The direction of being reminded just how dangerous magic can be? Of what atrocities it is capable of when used by a diseased mind?” 

Anders crossed his arms stubbornly. “You know yourself how much I oppose blood magic, Hawke. But surely you can’t equate blood magic with all magic. Please don’t tell me you’re plunging back into self-hatred and self-denial. It wasn’t healthy the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be healthy for you now. Has Fenris been at you again?” 

Hawke clenched her fists against the urge to punch the mage in the face. “This has nothing to do with Fenris. It has to do with the fact that every second villain we’ve encountered in our years here in Kirkwall has been a blood mage.” She met him glare for glare. “Are you denying that magic doesn’t make mages more vulnerable to corruption? And don’t give me your shit about how magic is no different from any other weapon, guided by the hand that wields it. A sword doesn’t give its wielder the power to turn other humans into mindless puppets, or to torture their victims beyond the grave.” 

A spark of blue gleamed in Anders’s eyes, and his voice was edged with the all-too-familiar echo of his constant companion. “What is it you really want to say, Hawke?” 

Hawke stared at him, her anger somewhat blunted by a surge of exasperation. “There’s nothing I want to  _say_ , Anders.  _You’re_  the one who’s forced me into this conversation.” She sighed. “ If you’re asking me whether I’m  about to go back to my days of pretending my magic doesn’t exist, you’ll be pleased to hear the answer is  _no._ ” 

Anders blinked, his eyes returning to their normal earthy brown. “Well… I’m… glad to hear you’re being sensible about all of this.” 

“Is there a  _sensible_  way to react to your mother being turned into an undead creature by an insane mage?” Hawke laughed mirthlessly. “I wasn’t aware.” 

Anders softened, and he started to reach for her. “Hawke…” 

“Don’t.” Hawke moved a step back and fixed him with a look that stopped him in his tracks. “I haven’t quite been driven mad by all of this, and I’m perfectly aware that not all mages are like Quentin and DuPuis. But we found evidence in Quentin’s papers that other mages were perfectly aware of what he was up to and were content to let him bloody his hands if it meant they could benefit from it in the end. You can’t ask me to have any sympathy for such mages.” 

Anders narrowed his eyes and spoke slowly for emphasis. “I wouldn’t ask you to. For the last time, Hawke, I’m as much against blood magic as you are.”  

“I know you are against blood magic.” Hawke crossed her arms. “But a mage doesn’t have to be a blood mage to abuse their powers.” 

“Now you’re starting to sound like a Templar.” Anders laughed in disbelief. 

“Not everyone who wants to be cautious where magic is concerned is a raving religious lunatic.” Hawke paused and sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted by the conversation. “There’s no point in arguing about this, Anders. As I’ve already told you, if you’re worried that I’ll relapse into my magic-hiding ways, I can assure that’s not the case. Shall we just leave it at that?” 

Anders eyed her disapprovingly, clearly wanting to say more, but much to her relief he simply leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Since you asked nicely, yes.” He flashed a grin at her. “I’ll save my nagging for another day, then.” 

“Another day far in the future, Maker willing.” Hawke said dryly. 

*** 

Hawke paused in front of the door of Fenris’s mansion, looking over her shoulder to see if any of the City-Guard were nearby. They were not. She tested the handle, found the door unlocked, and let herself in. 

She paused before venturing further into the house, mentally going over what she wanted to say. She wasn’t in the mood for another philosophical argument about the ethics of magic. Nor did she want to risk being vulnerable in front of him again, lest it lead to yet another rejection. She didn’t she could handle either at the moment with equanimity.   _Just say thank you for your support and get out of here, Marian Hawke. Don’t_ _let yourself get tangled into a_ _difficult conversation that both of you will regret. “Thank you, Fenris, for being there when I needed you. I hope you know I will always treasure your friendship._ _The end._ _Bye!_ _Bye! Don’t be a stranger!_ _”_  

“Hawke?” 

Hawke recoiled, startled. “Thank you, Fenris, for being there when I needed you,” she found herself blurting out, apropos of absolutely nothing. 

Fenris was standing at the top of the staircase. It was too dark to see his expression, which Hawke counted as a small blessing. She had to clench her fists to stop herself from slapping her own forehead in exasperation.  _Marian, you absolute_ _bint_ _._  “Sorry, that came out all wrong.” She cleared her throat in an attempt to reclaim some dignity. “I meant to start with: Hello, Fenris. I hope you’ve been well.” 

“More or less, thank you.” Fenris sounded carefully polite, but she sensed an undertone of amusement in his voice. “You should… come upstairs. I’ve just opened the last bottle of the Aggregio Pavali. It’s a fine vintage.” 

 _This is the part where you say, “That’s very kind of you, Fenris, but I have to_ _home and wash my hair._ _”_   But the next thing she knew, Hawke ’s  traitorous  feet were climbing the staircase .  Well, she didn’t want to be  _rude_ . She would have  _one_ drink to be polite, then make her excuses. Really, she would. 

Fenris had retreated to the study, where three empty bottles were already rolling around the carpet near the fireplace. For once there was a small fire, casting a rosy glow that made the neglected room seem almost cozy despite its dusty furnishings and fraying carpets. Hawke stepped closer to the fire, settled down comfortably on the hearth, and spread her hands – the evening was cool, and Fenris’s house always seemed chilly no matter the season. 

He wordlessly passed her an almost-full wine bottle, sitting down across from her, and she recklessly took a greedy swig. She wasn’t anything close to a wine connoisseur, but it did taste very nice, rich and complex with an aftertaste that reminded her of ripe cherries. She took one more deep swallow, carelessly wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and passed the bottle back to Fenris. He took it and tilted it to his lips. Hawke eyed the empty bottles on the table. “Is there some special occasion we’re drinking to?” she asked lightly. 

Fenris’s mouth twisted. “As it happens, we are. The anniversary of my escape from Danarius.” He looked sideways at Hawke. “Would you care to hear the tale?” 

Hawke blinked. Fenris was not one to normally volunteer tales about his past.  _Andraste’s_ _ass, h_ _e must be well and truly drunk._ The sensible thing to do would be to decline his offer and  suggest he stop trying to empty the wine cellar in the course of a single night. But she could feel the alcohol  burning in her cheeks and buzzing in her brain, making her feel  mildly  reckless.  _He already knows so much about me, it’s only fair_ _that it’s his turn to share._ Out loud she said, “If you’re willing to tell it.” 

Hawke found herself holding her breath as Fenris, between drinks of wine, told her the story of how he found himself alone and wounded on Seheron after a battle between Tevinter and the Qunari. He told her of the legendary Fog Warriors who took him in, treated his wounds, and gave him shelter. And then he told her what happened when Danarius came back to claim him, and the Fog Warriors refused to surrender Fenris to his former master. 

“He ordered me to kill them.” Fenris spoke in a flat tone. “And I did.” 

Hawke stared at Fenris, wide-eyed. She hadn’t thought herself capable of being shocked by anything anymore.“You… killed all of them?” she found herself whispering. “Why?” 

Fenris was staring into the fire as if he were contemplating hurling himself into the flames. “At the time it seemed… inevitable. My master had returned. I had been fooling myself with this fantasy life.” He turned to look at Hawke, his eyes distant and bleak. “The Fog Warriors would have died anyway, whether by my hand or at the hands of Danarius and his men. Danarius merely wanted to teach me a lesson by having me kill them myself. Or so I told myself.” His mouth twisted grimly. “Unfortunately for him, it had the exact opposite effect on me. I stood there, looking at all those bodies, people who had cared for me and treated me as an equal…” He trailed off, turning to look back into the flames, and swallowed. “You cannot know… what being a slave does to you. A slave does not think about the future, or of possibilities. They live one day to the next, and think only of surviving by anticipating the whims of their master. But in that moment, for the first time I could remember, I felt something else.” 

He fell silent, and Hawke watched the flames dancing in his dark green eyes, beautiful and unreadable all at once. “What did you feel?” she asked softly. 

“Shame. Regret. Anger. And the knowledge that I would truly rather die then serve Danarius any longer.” Fenris spat, his voice filled with vitriol when speaking Danarius’s name. “It was that taste of freedom, amongst people I respected, that finally made me realize the life I was living was no life at all.” He offered the bottle to Hawke, and she took a long drink before handing it back to him. “If not for the Fog Warriors, I might still yet be living under his thumb, resigned to my fate, ignorant of any other. And I repaid their kindness by slaughtering them.” He knocked the bottle back, draining it dry before dispassionately hurling it against the far wall, where it shattered with a muffled crack into countless shards that littered the carpet. 

He then turned his gaze to Hawke, who strove to meet it without flinching. She studied his handsome features, so familiar to her now, and tried to imagine him covered in blood, hacking at innocents whose only sin had been to try saving him from the clutches of his terrible master. Did this change how she felt about him? She tried to sift through the swirl of emotions through the cloud of alcohol fogging her wits. 

“Do I disgust you now?” Fenris queried, his emotionless voice a sharp contrast to the anguish in his eyes. 

Hawke chewed on her lower lip for a brief moment as she contemplated her answer. “You are… not the same person now that you were then, Fenris. People do desperate things when they are chained and abused. Although…” 

She stopped herself before she said something she would regret, but Fenris narrowed his eyes. “Go on, Hawke. What were you about to say?” 

 _Shit. This is_ _the exact opposite of what I wanted to talk about today._ Hawke  deliberated as best she could through her slightly fuzzy wits, then shrugged her shoulders in defeat. It was too late to back down now. “Although …  I have to say I’m surprised that you are willing to judge mages so harshly  for their actions  after hearing the tale of how you won your  own  freedom. _”_  

Fenris stared at her, his face settling into defensive lines. “It is not the same…” 

“It is exactly the same.” Hawke interrupted. “How would you have reacted if I’d told you that same story about a mage trying to escape her Templar captors? You would have said she deserved to be executed, or made Tranquil for her actions. Don’t you think she deserves the same chance as you? To become a better person, without the chains of oppression twisting her into the worst version of herself?” 

“Do you still believe in freedom for all mages after the way your mother died?” Fenris snapped back at her. The moment the words left his mouth, he stopped, as if belatedly realizing he’d crossed a line. But he didn’t apologize, nor did he look away. The silence between them was as cold as winter snow. 

“Magic is capable of terrible things.” Hawke spoke slowly, making her words hard and precise. “But so are regular people, as you have just proven with your tale. None of us are innocent of bloodshed. If I allow my mother’s death to become an excuse to condemn all mages to the Gallows, then I would have to judge all of humanity based on the worst atrocities we’ve witnessed. Based on all the bloodshed and betrayal we’ve seen and even been party to ourselves.” At that, Fenris flinched and looked away, his face hidden in the shadows beyond the small circle of firelight. Hawke pushed on, her eyes still relentlessly fixed on him. “I refuse to live in a world like that, Fenris. This world is cruel and ugly, yes, but I have to believe that there is something still worth saving, still worth living for.” 

Hawke fell silent, suddenly feeling too exhausted to continue. She looked at Fenris, who had retreated further into the darkness so he was little more than an outline. Through her fatigue she felt a thread of anger. Her mother was barely cold in her grave. For once, Hawke would have liked  permission to be  emotional and irrational, rather than being the one trying to talk sense into everyone else.  _We really should get to take turns being_ _unreasonable_ _about sensitive topics_ _, it’s only fair._ A  glimmer  of exasperated amusement wormed its way through her  frustration, and she mentally shook herself before she burst into inappropriate  laughter.   _Time to go home, Marian._  

She stood up and inclined her head briefly to Fenris. “Thank you,” she said carefully. “I… I know telling that story wouldn’t have been easy for you, Fenris. I appreciate you trusting me enough to share it. And… thank you for… for coming to see me when Mother died.”  _Thank you for being there when I needed you._ Words tumbled out of her, words she hadn’t meant to say out loud in front of him. “I know that… being a friend to a mage has never been easy for you. But I treasure your friendship all the more for it.” She swallowed, feeling a lump rising in her throat, not trusting herself to speak further, and quickly strode out of the room and down the stairs, ignoring Fenris calling her name, not stopping until she was out the door and safely on her way back home. 

*** 

Hawke had only just undressed for the night – wanting nothing more than sleep and oblivion to claim her as quickly as possible – when Bodahn knocked on her door. “Apologies, my lady, but Messere Fenris is here to see you. Should I tell him you’ve gone to bed?” 

 _Maker’s balls on a stick_ _, what does he bloody want?_ Hawke rolled her eyes to the ceiling and heaved a heavy sigh . She knew,  _knew_  that seeing him at this hour was just asking for trouble, but…  _who are you fooling, Marian Hawke, you know you’re not going to send him away._ _Even though you know how this will go… the two of you will argue passionately about something or other, you’ll end up kissing, then he’ll scamper away like you’ve suddenly turned into a_ _hurloc_ _. Then the two of you can act awkward around each other for the next few months_ _. Brilliant!_ _An absolute glutton for punishment, that’s me._  

“My lady?” Bodahn queried. 

Hawke realized she’d been glaring at the ceiling and had to quietly laugh at herself. “Show him in, Bodahn. And… don’t bother waiting up, he can show himself out later.” 

“Very good, my lady.” 

Hawke shrugged herself into a robe and tied it firmly around her waist just as Fenris entered the room. He closed the door behind him, then came to stand next to her, near the fireplace. “Hawke.” His voice was low. “I apologize for the late hour.” 

“Have you come to lecture me further about what an irresponsible witch I am?” she asked lightly. 

Fenris shook his head. “I came because…” 

He trailed off, looking at Hawke with an intensity that made her heart quicken despite her best efforts to remain unruffled. There was a slight brightness to his eyes that she had learned to recognize as a sign of his inebriation, although to the causal observer he would have seemed stone cold sober.  

“You were right… when you said that being a friend to a mage has never been easy for me.” Hawke’s eyes widened at his words, but he didn’t give her a chance to respond. “But not for the reasons you think. It is because… for as long as I can remember, my hatred of magic has been an all-consuming passion, swallowing everything else within me. And then I met you. Marian Hawke.” He suddenly stepped closer and took her face in his hands. Hawke felt rooted to the ground, almost unable to breathe at his sudden closeness, the feeling of his calloused hands against her cheeks. “Ever since… my feelings for you have constantly been warring with this hatred, this fear. And like a coward, I have let myself be ruled by my fears.” His hands tightened, pulling her towards him, and she made a small sound, though she wasn’t sure if it was of protest or desire. “But no longer. You are the bravest person I have ever known, Hawke. And a man who lets himself be ruled by his fears would be unworthy of you.” 

He bent his head towards hers, and Hawke closed her eyes, afraid they would betray the naked desire thrumming under her skin, driving all else from her mind. He was so close they were sharing each breath between them. “Tell me to go,” he said quietly, “and I shall.” 

For answer, she crushed her mouth against his, with all the pent-up frustrated hunger of the past three years behind it. He kissed her back fiercely, his tongue rough and demanding against her own. His hands left her face and grabbed her wrists as he pinned her against the nearest wall. She found herself struggling instinctively, caught between stone wall and Fenris hard and unyielding against her, but then his mouth was moving on her neck and she shuddered, arching and whimpering as he ground his hips against hers, the wetness of his tongue against her sensitive skin driving her to near madness with desire.  

Their brief scuffle had loosened her robe, and he planted a fierce trail of slow kisses from her neck to her breasts. Hawke found herself crying out with frustration as his mouth hovered just over her nipple, so close she could feel his breath raising goosebumps on her skin. Then he gently took it in his mouth, and she writhed in his grasp, her mind filled only with the sensation of his tongue against her, teasing her until her nerves were at a fever pitch. He seemed to sense her growing agitation and lifted his hips a fraction, allowing her to wrap one leg around him and press herself against him with a satisfied moan as he paid prolonged homage to her breasts with his mouth. He finally let her wrists go, wrapping his hands around her waist instead, and she twined her arms and legs around him, clinging to him fiercely, losing herself in the pleasure aroused by his tongue moving against her sensitive flesh. She bent her head, her fingers tangled in his white hair, and pressed her lips against his ear, nipping his earlobe until he groaned. “Take me to bed, Fenris. Please.” 

He moved carefully, lowering her onto the sheets, her legs still twisted tightly around his waist and forcing him to stay pinned against her. She reached down and boldly caressed him through his trousers, and he muttered a Tevinter curse under his breath, burying his face in her neck as she rubbed her hand against his hardness slowly, deliberately, using the other hand to tug at the fastenings until they came undone. But then he swiftly gathered her wrists in one hand, pinning them firmly above her head as he sought her mouth with his own once more. Then she felt his other hand stroking her inner thigh, trailing a slow, torturous trail upwards, and she spread her legs with growing impatience, her curses lost in the tangle of their tongues. His fingers then pressed against the sensitive cluster of nerves at the opening of her cleft, too hesitant for her liking, and she moved her hips against him with an incoherent groan. Then she felt his fingers moving inside her while his thumb stroked against her in a way that made her writhe and gasp, but his hold on her wrists made resistance futile, and he met her furious gaze with a gleam in his eyes that suggested he was enjoying this far too much. But very soon the heat and pressure building between her thighs drove any coherent thought from her mind, and all she could do was lose herself in the sensation of his fingers on her skin, stroking her insistently, inexorably, until it all became too much, and she spasmed and cried out, grinding herself against his hand, waves of pleasure racking her body in almost unbearable succession. 

It took her more than a few moments to gather her wits after that. Breathing heavily, her mind still clouded by the haze of bliss suffusing her limbs, she gradually realized that Fenris had taken the time to strip himself and was kneeling next to her on the bed, watching her with his inscrutable face, only his eyes giving away the hunger burning within him. She looked back at him, still trying to catch her breath, noting how the shadows of the fireplace flickered over his slender form, how his lyrium markings gleamed whenever they caught the light. It seemed odd to think of a man as beautiful, but the sight of him wearing nothing but his own skin, lean and muscled in the shadows, made her catch her breath. He met her eyes, and the side of his mouth curled in a half-smile. 

“Don’t look so smug,” she retorted with a laugh. Quickly, she sat up, swiftly straddling him and pushing him back until he lay stretched out beneath her, though he immediately propped himself up on his elbows and studied her with narrowed eyes. She didn’t give him a chance to say anything. Instead she raised herself up on her knees and slowly, slowly, wriggled herself onto his fully erect cock, gasping a little as his hardness penetrated her still-sensitive flesh. His eyes widened, then closed as he gave a muffled groan, falling back on the pillows.  

Hawke was still for a few heartbeats, savoring the sensation of this absolute intimacy, the heat and fierceness of his desire filling her and at the same time stoking her own desire for more. Then she rocked her hips, almost imperceptibly. His fingers dug into her thighs as he opened his eyes and stared at her, his normally sharp green eyes almost unfocused with the intensity of his hunger. “Hawke.” 

She took it slow, partially to build her own pleasure but also to pay him back for his own meticulous torture of her flesh. She ground up against him, moving in time to his upward thrusts as he sought to penetrate her even further; she angled her hips so he rubbed against her in a way that tempted her to move faster towards climax… but she forced herself to be patient, sliding herself along his cock in long, deliberate strokes, taking satisfaction in watching his face tighten with growing urgency as he watched her like a starving wolf eyeing his prey. 

Then abruptly she found herself crushed into the mattress, Fenris on top of her, his markings glowing as brightly as if they were in the midst of battle. He thrust himself back inside her with a violence that made her cry out, but at the same time her hips rose to take him in deeper and she wrapped her legs high around his back. His entire body was pressed hard against hers as their hips moved in quick, urgent tandem, and she lost all sense of herself in the passionate heat of their tangled flesh, the mingling of pleasure and pain as he entwined his fingers in hers and they tightly held on to each other as he thrust into her over and over until finally she cried out and threw her head back in ecstasy, wriggling in his grasp. Almost immediately afterwards he groaned and spasmed against her, his entire body shaking with the force of his climax. Hawke felt his muscles clench and stiffen, then slowly relax as the tension drained from his body, leaving him limp with exhaustion. She felt a wanton, welcome heaviness creeping up her own limbs as the last shudders of her orgasm rippled through her, and she shifted a little until she was snuggled against Fenris’s side rather than pinned beneath his weight. He turned to look at her, the light fading from his markings, his emerald eyes heavy-lidded with the same lethargy that was clouding her consciousness. “Hawke,” he said hoarsely, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, his thumb gently brushing against her cheekbone. 

She opened her mouth but couldn’t repress a yawn, which made him chuckle quietly before pulling her close to his chest. His arm tightened around her in an easy intimacy that curved her lips into an involuntary smile, and she quickly drifted asleep with the steady beat of his heart against her ear. 

*** 

Fenris was on feet in a crouch on the floor before he was even fully aware he was awake. All he could hear was his heart pounding mercilessly in his ears. The bright pain running along the lines of his lyrium markings was sharp enough to make him bite down on his tongue with a grunt until he tasted blood. For a moment he had no idea where he was. All he knew was pain and terror and confusion, and his eyes darted desperately around the dark room, seeking an escape. Then he felt a phantom pressure on his head, and a familiar voice:  _Fenris. My little wolf. You are… magnificent._  

 _No!_ Fenris leapt to his feet, backing up against the wall, instinctively pressing his hands against the markings on his arms. He took his hands away and peered at them, expecting to see blood. There was nothing. He whipped his head one way, then the other, searching desperately for the source of the voice, half-cringing in dread. For Danarius, his master. 

Without warning, he heard another voice behind him, almost as if someone were standing just over his shoulder.  _You don’t have to do this._  It was not Danarius. It was a tremulous, almost-familiar voice that caused his heart to clench with an emotion he couldn’t name. He whirled around, grasping at shadows, and for half a second he thought he saw someone’s face staring sadly into his own. But then it was gone, and so was the voice, leaving him with nothing but confusion and fear for company. 

Gradually, the blind panic and phantom pain receded, bit by bit, until he could finally stand up straight, drenched in sweat but no longer confused as to where he was. He was in Kirkwall, leagues away from Tevinter. He was… with Hawke. 

She was sprawled out on the bed on her stomach, still slumbering, one slender leg poking out of the blankets, her lips slightly parted as she breathed in and out in a steady rhythm. He stared at her, his breath still harsh and ragged, his eyes tracing the curves of her naked body, his heart filled with a whirlwind of emotions as flashes of their night together came back to him in vivid detail. The taste of her mouth against his, the softness of her skin, the heat of her flesh… how she had wrapped her legs around him and moaned as he’d entered her... 

A sudden flash of pain, as cruel as the stroke of a whip, drove him to his knees, and for a heartbeat his mind was filled with another memory, this one just as vivid but far more unpleasant. He could hear Danarius’s voice, muttering incantations in an incomprehensible tongue, and fire being injected into his skin. He wanted to scream but he could not; it was as if his limbs were no longer his own. He was a prisoner in his own body, unable to escape the slow, meticulous torture being etched into his skin. And it would not end for a long time. 

With a supreme effort he wrenched his consciousness back to the present, swallowing bile in an attempt not to vomit. His hands shook as if with illness, and he leaned back on his heels, fighting back the panic in his throat until he felt sure he could stand without falling over. 

Hawke had shifted at the noises but still slept on, blissfully oblivious to his suffering. He clenched his fists, wanting to touch her but not daring to lest it trigger another flashback to a past he’d long thought dead and buried.  

Hawke always insisted that the Maker had a sadistic sense of humor, but it wasn’t until now that Fenris thought she might actually be right. He’d finally worked up the courage to face his greatest weakness, a weakness that he’d come to realize was keeping him from pursuing some semblance of happiness with the only woman he’d ever truly cared for. When Hawke had drifted off to sleep in his arms, the warmth of her body against him almost terrified him with how right it felt. All uncertainty and bitterness had disappeared in its wake, reassuring him that everything was going to be all right after all. And then he’d fallen asleep himself only to fall prey to dark, unknowable nightmares that stoked the very fears he’d thought he’d conquered. He was no stranger to bad dreams, but nothing like this. A bleakness crept into his thoughts, threatening to overwhelm him and drag him into a spiraling abyss, but he closed his eyes and somehow found the strength to summon the stoic, emotionless calm that had ever been his shield. It had been a mistake to think he could allow himself to indulge in the feelings he had for Hawke. Opening himself up to those feelings had clearly made him vulnerable to other parts of his mind; parts that his mind had buried for its own sanity, it seemed. It was a mistake he could not afford to make again. 

He hastily shrugged himself into his clothes, then paused to stare at the slumbering Hawke. The temptation to disappear without having to face her was so overwhelming that he had to turn away from her and stare into the dying fire, forcing his panic down from where it was trying to claw its way up from his gut. He had to look into her eyes and tell her why he was leaving. It was the very least he owed her. 

“Was it that bad?” 

He half-turned in guilty surprise at her wry tone, still not ready to meet her gaze. Hawke was sitting up in bed, her hair disheveled and her cheeks rosy from the warmth of the blankets. She made no effort to cover her nakedness, and although the light from the fire was little more than a dim glow, he could still see the curves of her breasts outlined in the shadows. His fingers twitched with the memory of how soft and heavy they had felt in his hands, and how she had moaned as he’d run his tongue against her nipples, feeling them tighten as her arousal intensified. He had to give his head a hard shake to pull himself out of this dangerous train of thought. 

“It wasn’t bad. It was fine.” The words tripped out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he inwardly cursed himself as Hawke stared at him in startled and hurt disbelief. He cleared his throat. “It was... more than fine. It was more than I’d ever dared to dream of.” 

The words still felt awkward and inadequate, but thankfully Hawke’s discomfort faded from her face upon hearing them. She arched a brow, caught somewhere between amusement and caution. “Is that why you are fully dressed and about to steal out into the night?” 

Fenris sighed and finally met her eyes, gleaming amber even in the dying light. She clearly sensed something was wrong; she blinked, and he could see an awareness dawning on her, subtly steeling herself for what he was about to say.  _How many times have I disappointed her?_  he asked himself bitterly. 

“I told you before that I have no memories of my past.” Fenris spoke in a low voice, feeling painfully vulnerable, as if he were showing Hawke the deepest scars of his very soul. “Everything from before... before I received my markings has always been unknown to me. Until now.” He rubbed his forehead, feeling the dampness there as he tried to talk about what had just happened without triggering another flood of unwelcome flashbacks. “It’s been coming to me in fragments. I... can’t make sense of it all.” The unknown voice and face... who had that been? The strange familiarity of it all tickled the edges of his memory, seemingly within his grasp yet maddeningly hovering beyond it. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to know. 

“Fenris.” Hawke’s voice brought him back to the present. She had scrambled out from beneath the sheets and was now sitting at the edge of the bad. Her brow was furrowed. “Are you saying that us... being together... triggered flashbacks for you? Memories you thought you’d forgotten?” 

Fenris averted his eyes from her nakedness and answered her with a brief nod. “Yes.” 

She  _hmphed_  through her nose, clearly still confused. “Don’t you  _want_  to remember your past?” 

“You don’t understand!” he snapped, frustrating breaking through his reserve. She started, wide-eyed and silent. “It’s all jumbled and broken, and has clarified nothing for me. Only that my life before the markings was most likely no better than it was after.” He barked a humorless laugh. “It’s too much, Hawke. Being forced to relive a past I barely know... being forced to relive the pain and the suffering without even being able to remember  _why_ or  _how..._ I’m afraid I am a coward, after all.” 

Hawke had risen to her feet, approaching Fenris carefully, one hand outstretched. There was an almost imperceptible tremor in her voice that nearly broke his heart, though he strove to keep his face blank of all emotion. “You don’t have to face it alone, Fenris. Damn your brooding, angsty ways. Let me help you.  _Please._ ” 

She drew near enough to lay her hand on his chest, and even that brief moment of contact sent a shiver down his spine. He caught her hand in his own and held it tightly, his eyes closed so he no longer had to face the pain shimmering in her own. “Forgive me, Hawke,” he rasped through the tightness in his throat. “I am a fool.” 

He gently let go of her hand and turned away, forcing his feet to stride out of the room, down the stairs, back to his lonely mansion and his solitary existence. Each step filled him with a bleak despair, the knowledge of a drowning man who has cast aside his only hope of salvation. But he knew he had no choice. He would rather sink into his darkness alone than risk pulling Hawke down with him. 


	13. The Book of Shartan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke visits Fenris with a present and a promise.

“Hawke. Come in, I suppose.” 

Merrill’s greeting was rather sullen and hardly welcoming, but Hawke took it as a good sign that she was being invited inside at all, given the way they’d parted at their last meeting.  _Awkward partings seem to be becoming a thing for me these days,_  she thought to herself with wry amusement as she settled herself in one of Merrill’s rickety chairs. 

“Do you want some tea or something?” Merrill asked her with poorly concealed hostility, standing in front of her with her arms crossed. 

“Only if you promise not to spit in it,” Hawke countered. 

Merrill blinked and wrinkled her nose. “Why would I do that? That's disgusting.” 

Hawke laughed. “Well, you’re clearly still angry with me, so spitting in my tea seems not outside the realm of possibility.” 

Merrill stared at her for a moment, then finally deigned to sit down across from her, though her body language was still stiff and uninviting. “Is that what humans do? And you call the Dalish uncivilized.” 

Hawke laughed and sighed in one breath, deciding to get straight to the point rather than wasting time on small talk. Small talk only ever confused the Dalish mage, anyway. “Merrill. I’ve come to apologize.” 

Merrill looked at her, her eyes alight with hope. “So you’ve come to your senses and changed your mind?” 

“No.” Hawke shook her head, regretful but firm despite her friend’s face darkening once more with the beginnings of rage. “I haven’t changed my mind about the Arulin’holm, Merrill.” 

“Then why are you here?” Merrill snapped. 

“Because I don’t want this to ruin our friendship.” Hawke said sincerely. It was ironic that her relationships with her companions seemed more fragile now than they did three years ago, when they had barely known each other. “Maker’s balls. I really wish that Marethari hadn’t left this decision up to me. If I'm being honest with you, it seems rather cowardly of her.” 

“She couldn’t refuse me directly once I invoked _vir_ _sulevanan_.” Merrill explained bitterly. “But that doesn’t excuse you even so. I thought we were friends, Hawke! You have no right to do this to me.”  

The elf’s normally luminous pale green eyes were sharp with resentment as she met Hawke’s troubled gaze. Hawke could never have imagined the usually mild-mannered Merrill capable of such open animosity.  _I don’t know why I’m surprised. Everyone in our merry little band seems to be two steps away from lunacy, one way or another._  

“For what it’s worth, Merrill, I agree with you. I’m not Dalish and barely even a mage; I know less than nothing about this mirror of yours or why you need this fancy dagger. If the Keeper had given you the Arulin’holm, I wouldn’t have interfered.” She shook her head. “But unfortunately for both of us, she’s left this with me. And what little I do know tells me that you are dabbling in blood magic, dangerous magic, without being fully aware of what the consequences might be.” 

Merrill bristled. “What do  _you_  know about magic? You said so yourself; you’re barely even a mage. I  _won’t_  be lectured by someone who’s only half a step up from a novice!” 

“I know that there’s always a price.” Hawke spoke quietly. She felt vaguely uncomfortable using her dead mother to guilt Merrill into listening, but at this point she was desperate. Thankfully, whatever Merrill saw in Hawke’s face was enough to give her pause, and Hawke continued. “I know that too often mages convince themselves the price is worth it, even when the price is being paid by others. I know that using blood magic to go against the natural order of things has never ended well for anyone.” She swallowed, trying to repress the memory of her mother’s head crudely stitched onto a body that wasn’t hers, of how Hawke’s last memory of her was being caressed by cold, stiff fingers that belonged to a complete stranger. “Maybe you’re right, Merrill. Maybe you  _are_  capable of fixing the eluvian with blood magic without it all ending in tragedy.” She looked at her friend steadily, unwavering in her resolve. “But I can’t take that chance. Not after everything I’ve been through.”  

Merrill was staring at her, still angry, but Hawke sensed a slight shift in her overall demeanor, a thread of resignation undermining the blood mage’s stubborn resolve, and she pressed her advantage. “And I understand why you’re angry. Be angry at me all you want, I can accept that. But I’m hoping you didn’t really mean it when you said you never wanted to see me again. I’d miss you very much.” 

Merrill looked at her for a prolonged moment, her conflicted feelings clear on her guileless face. “I’m still angry with you, Hawke. But... I suppose I might miss you, too. Eventually.” 

Hawke breathed a sigh of relief.  _At least there is one elf still willing to keep my company._ “Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll come over once a week and you can glare at me and call me the worst names you can think of. I’ll even let you slap me around a bit.” 

Merrill looked at her for a moment, and then without warning reached out and slapped Hawke hard across her right cheek. To her credit, Hawke did see it coming, but at the last minute she forced herself not to dodge, though the blow left her with a distinct ringing in her ears. Merrill had not held back. 

“Thank you, but I don’t think it really makes me feel any better.” Merrill said thoughtfully. “I was hoping it would, but it doesn’t. Maybe we can try again?” 

Hawke rubbed her cheek with a rueful laugh. “Or perhaps I’ll just stay away for the time being. You can write me when you’re in a more forgiving mood.” 

“If you like.” Merrill agreed amiably enough. 

Hawke stood up, preparing to leave before Merrill decided to try any harsher methods of anger management, when a tattered, unfamiliar book on the kitchen table caught her eye. “A Slave’s Life.” She read the title out loud as she picked the book up and carefully flipped through the pages. “Is this something new?” 

“Oh. I found it on a bench the other day.” Merrill shrugged. “It seemed a shame to let a book go to waste, so I brought it home. But it’s rather depressing. Isabella’s books are much more fun to read.” 

“Of that I have no doubt.” Hawke looked at Merrill in amused disbelief. “This book was written by Shartan. The elf who was Andraste’s champion. Surely you’ve heard of him?” 

“Oh, him.” Merrill looked only mildly interested. “Yes, everyone knows about him. He led a lot of his fellow elves to slaughter by getting them caught up in a human war.” 

Hawke blinked, caught off-guard by Merrill’s matter-of-fact summary. “Oh. Well, yes, you’re not wrong.” She looked down at the book again. “Still, this is a rare find. Not many copies of his writing have survived, as far as I know.” 

“You’re welcome to have it.” Merrill offered. 

“That’s very kind of you, Merrill, especially seeing as you’re still angry with me.” 

“Oh, right.” Merrill blinked. “Well. I’m not particularly attached to it anyway. I can give it to you and still be mad at you, you know.” 

“That’s a relief.” Hawke tucked the book under her arm and gave Merrill a half-smile by way of a farewell before taking her leave. 

*** 

“My lady, do you have a moment?” Bodahn greeted her as she walked in the door. Sandal stood behind him with his usual placid smile on his face, holding a box in his arms. “I wanted to get your approval for these sigils.” 

“Sigils?” Hawke said vaguely, her mind occupied. With an effort she stopped and focused on her steward. “Sigils for whom?” 

“Our household, my lady.” He explained patiently. “Ever since the attack from those crazy apostates, several of your companions have urged me to establish a proper guard and keep regular servants.” 

Hawke arched a brow. “What you mean by _several of my companions_?” 

“Well, Messeres Fenris and Sebastian were most insistent, as was Captain Vallen. And they were right, of course.” Bodahn nodded for emphasis. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but it was something I should have seen to long before.” 

Hawke huffed in something between amusement and annoyance as she rolled her eyes. “Maker’s breath, it’s not your fault, Bodahn. It’s not a job I ever asked you do. And it’s not like you spend your days twiddling your toes in idleness.” 

Bodahn frowned and shook his head. “It’s still my responsibility, my lady. At any rate, better late than never. But now that we have a proper household, it’s only right that our people have something to show to others, to prove they belong to us.” 

An image of Fenris’s anguished face flashed through her mind, and Hawke flinched. “I’m not sure I like that idea of people belonging to us, Bodahn. They're not slaves; we don’t own them.” 

“You misunderstand me, my lady.” Bodahn’s pale blue eyes were earnest beneath his heavy ginger brows. “Your crest on their jackets would mark them as under your protection. As your people.” Hawke blinked at this unexpected explanation, and Bodahn pressed on eagerly. “Kirkwall can be a dangerous place, my lady, though I know I don’t have to tell you twice. Those who don’t belong anywhere are easy prey for the wicked. The Amell crest signals to the world that these people are not alone. That they belong somewhere, and that there will be consequences for harming them.” 

“A shield of sorts, then.” Hawke reached into the box and picked up one of the crests. It was enameled metal, surprisingly light, shaped like a shield and about the size of her hand. The red lines of the twin birds with their talons entwined stood out vividly against the dull grey background. “A very small shield, anyway. Are you sure it won’t make our people targets instead?” 

The question didn’t seem to faze her steward; he shrugged philosophically. “You do have enemies, my lady, there’s no denying that. But... your crest will dissuade all but the most determined, I think. And, if I may say so, my lady, anyone confident enough to openly attack you most likely wouldn’t trouble themselves with your servants.” 

Hawke laughed a little. “How reassuring.” She closed her fingers around the crest. “Well, I leave it to you, Bodahn, and thank you for being so capable. Might I keep this one?” 

“Of course, my lady.” He gave her a quick bow as she waved a farewell to Sandal before heading upstairs. 

Once in her room, she set down the book on her desk and put the crest on top of it. Then she stared down at them both, her heart full of apprehension and doubt at the seed of an idea that had started to sprout within her. 

It had been almost a month since she’d seen Fenris. A month full of many a sleepless night, where Hawke had lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, her mind pulsing at the ecstasy of those precious moments they had been able to forget the world and lose themselves in each other so completely. A few times she’d touched herself in desperation, seeking some kind of release from the frustration those memories brought with them, but the fleeting relief that filled her was not worth the empty loneliness that crept in in its wake. A few nights she’d taken to drinking herself into a numbing stupor, but then there were always the mornings to reckon with, and they were never pleasant. 

 _This is ridiculous. I need to get past this, to get on with my life._  Hawke pressed a fist against her forehead and cursed under her breath. But what could she do? She couldn’t leave Kirkwall, nor could she ask Fenris to leave either, not with Danarius still alive and lurking in the shadows. And it wasn’t realistic for her to avoid ever seeing him again. Kirkwall was a small place, and their lives were far too intertwined. It wasn’t something she wanted, either. Even after all the pain her heart had suffered as a result of their stormy relationship – the constant cycle of passion and despair – Hawke couldn’t bring herself to cut him out of her life altogether. 

 _But will I be able to convince him that we can just be friends after all?_   _We haven’t proven ourselves to be very good at it so far._  Hawke shook her head, her lips twisting into a deprecating smile. True, there had been that three-year stretch between when she’d returned from the Deep Roads and when... well,  _now._  It hadn’t been entirely comfortable between them, but it had been bearable. But Hawke had to admit to herself that even then she’d never quite abandoned the hope that they could make it work eventually. 

 _And look where that’s gotten us._  A memory of Fenris’s face before he’d left her that night arose in her mind, and she felt a pang in her chest at the pain she’d seen burning in his eyes. _That pain was my doing. I should have left well enough alone._  

Hawke pressed her lips together with renewed resolve. She took a quick look in her mirror and spared a few moments to retie her hair with her customary strip of red cloth. Then she scooped up the book and the crest, put them in a satchel, and strode out the door. 

*** 

Fenris was spending the afternoon methodically sharpening his swords. Most of them didn’t really need any sharpening, but he found it an easy way to keep himself busy, and the rhythm of the stone against steel was comfortingly monotonous. He’d spent the past few weeks on somewhat of a rampage – Aveline had taken pity on him and given him a laundry list of problems needing to be dealt with in Darktown. But one couldn’t spend all hours of every day slicing up thugs and miscreants, as tempting as that was. 

He heard his front door open and was on his feet swiftly, his newly-sharpened sword clenched in his fist. But the voice that called out his name froze him in place. “Fenris?” 

The low, sweet tones of Hawke’s familiar voice sent a heady cocktail of emotions swirling through him, threatening to overwhelm him where he stood. He shook his head briskly, willing himself to be calm, to push his fear and desire back into the dark corners of his mind, beneath the surface of his consciousness. 

Hawke appeared in the doorway of the study but stopped there, making no attempt to draw any closer. The sunlight darting through the gaps in the dusty curtains behind him sent strips of jagged light across her, one of them catching her across the face and causing her to squint for a few moments. She was dressed in her normal plain attire, a dark red cloak thrown over practical leather armor. But he could easily picture her naked body gleaming in the firelight, her skin smooth and warm against his hands, and he had to turn away from her and will his attention elsewhere before his body betrayed him. 

“Expecting someone?” Hawke asked lightly, her eyes indicating the array of swords carefully lined up on the desk. 

He ignored her attempt at levity, still unable to meet her eyes. “Hawke. What brings you here?” 

She sighed. “I’ve brought you a present.” 

“A present?” he repeated, staring at her incredulously at this ridiculous reponse. Was she going to try and pretend that their last encounter had never happened? Willful denial wasn’t Hawke’s style. 

“Yes, you know, when you give something nice to a friend that you think they might like,” Hawke drawled with a trace of her usual irreverent humor. She walked over to him but stopped at the far end of the desk, still maintaining a safe distance, as if she expected him to bite her like a feral beast if she strayed too close. Rummaging in her satchel, she pulled out a book and thumped it on the desk with a flourish. “Here.” 

He looked at the book suspiciously. “What is this?” 

“It’s... a book.” Hawke spoke slowly, eyeing him as if she wasn’t sure whether he was trying to be funny or not. “A book written by the elf Shartan. Have you heard of him?” 

“Yes.” Fenris replied shortly. “A little. His name is rarely spoken in Tevinter.” 

“What a surprise.” Hawke laughed softly. “I’m sure the magisters love to be reminded of a former elven slave who humiliated them several times over.” She pushed the book towards Fenris. “Anyway, I thought if anyone might appreciate his story, it would be you. It’s actually difficult to find copies of his memoir... a lot them were burned after his death, I think.” 

Fenris reached out and carefully picked up the tattered volume, his mind frantically flailing around for the appropriate response. A streak of defensive anger made his heartbeat quicken before he could stop himself. Was Hawke mocking him? He dared to look up at her, striving to keep his face neutral. She was looking back at him, her lower lip caught in her teeth as it always was when she was anxious, her eyes clear and guileless in the sunlight. No. The Hawke he knew would never knowingly mock him for his ignorance. 

She seemed to sense that he was upset, and nervously shifted her stance. “Is something wrong, Fenris?” 

"Slaves aren’t taught how to read.” The words came out harshly, more accusingly than he’d intended. 

Hawke’s face had always been the one book he could read without effort, and he could see her doing her best to keep her features under control. She hid her surprise fairly well, confining her reaction to a few startled blinks, but her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment – for herself, he realized. She was angry at herself for not realizing this truth about him on her own.  

“You aren’t a slave any longer,” she said softly. “And it’s not too late to learn.” 

He dropped his gaze, unable to face the sincerity in her eyes. “Hawke. I can’t...” 

“No, stop talking. Let me speak first.” Hawke took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders as if she were preparing for battle. Fenris felt his heart almost stop in his chest. Was she preparing to tell him that she was done with him and his cowardly, fickle ways? Was she going to banish him from her company, ask him to leave Kirkwall?  And what would he do if she did? Surely he had no right to torture her any further with his presence. He owed her everything, and had repaid her with nothing but heartbreak. 

“I want to apologize for... for our last time together.” Her cheeks burned even hotter as she stumbled on her words. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you, being forced to face your memories without any warning like that... and it was selfish of me to try and convince you to stay with me. Forgive me.” 

“Hawke,” Fenris tried to interrupt in protest, but she held up a hand. 

“Shut up, Fenris, and let me get through this before I lose my nerve.” She glared at him until he subsided. “Thank you. What I’m trying to say is... your friendship means everything to me. And every time we’ve tried to... to have something more, it’s somehow ended up causing you pain.” Fenris shook his head in disbelief – surely  _he_ should be the one apologizing to her – but she pointed at him forcefully.  

“Shut up, I’m still not finished. Friends shouldn’t cause each other pain. I’ve done so in the past without meaning to, but I can’t use that as an excuse any longer.” Her voice was tense and low, as if she were making an effort to keep it from trembling. “So I’m promising you now that from this moment I will honor the friendship we have, and I won’t pressure you to give me anything more than you’re willing. I swear to you, Fenris, on my family name.” She put her right hand against her chest as if to emphasize the seriousness of her promise. “Maker knows, you have suffered enough. Kirkwall is your home now, Fenris, and it would kill me if I were the reason you felt you couldn’t stay.” 

Fenris swallowed, unable to give voice to any kind of articulate response. He couldn’t trust himself to move or even to speak. In the silence that ensued, Hawke again dug into her satchel and pulled out a small object, carefully putting it down on the desk in the space between them. He stared at it. It was a small metal shield with a familiar red sigil etched into it – two birds facing each other, claws entwined. “This is your family crest.” 

“Yes.” Hawke nodded. “Bodahn had these made for our household.” She hesitated, her fingers drumming nervously on the desk in an irregular beat. “He said that... that carrying the crest let others know that these people were under my protection.” Fenris raised an incredulous eyebrow at that, and she laughed nervously.  

“Don’t misunderstand me, Fenris. Maker knows you can protect yourself. But... we both know that Danarius is still after you.” He felt himself tense at the mention of his former master’s name, but Hawke pressed on in a rush. “When Hadriana had us ambushed, I found a note on one of the mages that suggested Danarius knows who I am. He knows my name, and he warned his people not to openly attack me in Kirkwall because he knew my reputation.” She laughed a little at that. “Varric’s stories have been some use after all, I suppose.” 

Fenris was genuinely surprised by that bit of information – he’d never considered that Hawke’s reputation would be known to Danarius all the way in Tevinter. But his former master had always been... thorough. He gave his head a hard shake, pushing thoughts of Danarius away with an effort. Now was not the time. 

He picked up the crest and turned it around in his fingers, observing the gilded edges and the loop on the other side that made it possible to wear it on a belt or a sash. “You are asking me to wear this?” he asked hoarsely. 

“Only if you want to.” Hawke replied in a quiet voice. “You can keep it or toss it in the Void, I don’t mind. But I'm giving it to you as a token of my promise.” A small twist of amusement tugged at the corner of her mouth. “The friendship of an untrustworthy witch apostate, for whatever that’s worth.” 

She was looking at him intently, her grave golden eyes belying the light-hearted jest on her lips, waiting for his reply, and he wondered what he’d done to deserve the trust and regard of a woman such as Hawke. She stood there, her hair held back by a tattered red ribbon, clad in nothing but plain fabric and leather and steel, and he thought she couldn't have been more beautiful. If he’d been a stronger man, he would have had the courage to break her heart one last time and leave her forever. It would be the wiser choice in the long run.  _Maker forgive me._  

“I have a request.” 

She visibly tensed at his words. “Yes?” 

“Don’t move.” He walked slowly towards her, stopping about a handspan away. She stared at him, her eyes wide and apprehensive, but true to his request she was absolutely still. Then he reached for the red bit of fabric that kept her hair in place and gently undid the knot, allowing her dark locks to fall messily about her face. He clutched the strip of fabric in his fist and swiftly stepped away before her closeness became too unbearable, before the urge to take her in his arms became too strong. 

“I am no knight.” He spoke hesitantly, trying to find the right words to express the complicated thoughts whirling through his head. “And often I wonder if my... friendship... is more burden than boon to you. But this... your promise...” He held up the crest she had given him, his throat tight with emotion. “This means more to me than I can say. But all I can offer you in return is my friendship and my sword.” 

He held out the red strip of cloth. Confused, she took it from his grasp, looking at him questioningly. He turned his arm, presenting her with his wrist, feeling slightly foolish but not knowing how else to show her the seriousness of his resolve. 

“It is my understanding that... human knights bear the colors of their ladies into battle.” Understanding dawned on Hawke’s face, and she looked at him silently, her eyes wide in her lovely face.  

“Maker only knows what the future holds in store for us, Hawke. I won’t make promises I can’t know if I’ll be able to keep. But for as long as we are both in Kirkwall, this I swear to you.”  

Fenris fixed his eyes on Hawke, wanting her to know how determined he was to keep this vow, no matter the cost. “I am yours, Hawke. If you’ll accept what little I can offer you.” 

Slowly, Hawke wrapped the red cloth around his outstretched wrist, fixing it in place with a tidy knot. For a single heartbeat she clutched his hand in both her own, squeezing it tightly before letting it fall from her grasp. Her eyes shimmered, but she blinked rapidly and shook her head with a soft laugh. “It’s a good thing knights are traditionally concerned with guarding their lady’s purity,” she quipped with a wry twist to her mouth. 

Fenris startled himself with a bark of laughter at her jest, the tension draining out of him and leaving him feeling almost giddy with relief. She smiled at him briefly before turning away with a wave of farewell. “I’ll see you soon, Fenris,” she offered, with a passable attempt at a nonchalant tone.  

“Hawke.” He nodded, waiting until he could hear her walking down the staircase before collapsing into the nearest chair with a smothered groan. Had he done the right thing?  _Probably not. But it was the only thing I could do to preserve my own sanity. Maker have mercy on both of us_


	14. Demands of the Qun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke must put her life on the line for Kirkwall, and Fenris can do nothing but watch from the sidelines.

Hawke cursed as the guardsman in front of her went down with a grunt, a javelin abruptly sprouting between his shoulder blades. _So much for bringing back-up._ She spared a fleeting thought of regret for Aveline’s men, their corpses littering the path behind them. But then the hairs on her neck prickled, and without thought she whirled around and drew on her mana, shaping energy into concrete existence in a desperate attempt to protect herself. The next two javelins whizzing towards her bounced off an invisible barrier and clattered harmlessly to the ground.

Hawke flinched, startled by her own actions, but there was no time for her to reflect on what she’d just done. Aveline was at her back, grimly deflecting more attacks with her shield as they tried to make their way to the compound entrance without getting speared. The Qunari on the ground were swiftly closing in, and they were severely outnumbered. Hawke recklessly sprinted the remaining distance and threw herself at the gates.

“It’s locked!”

“Figure it out, Hawke!” Aveline barked, grunting as she caught the blades of the two closest Qunari on her own.

Hawke growled in frustration as she planted her hands against the wood and metal and closed her eyes. Magic flowed through her in a savage rush, and the doors creaked, then burst open as if suddenly punched by an extremely angry giant. Splinters and shards filled the air. Hawke whipped around and tossed a flask into the knot of Qunari closing in on Aveline, where it shattered and turned into a murky black cloud. In the ensuing chaos, the two of them staggered out of the compound and down the stairs, to where their astonished companions were waiting for them.

“Go! Go!” Hawke shouted as she approached them, and without asking questions they followed her lead as she sprinted through the alleyways of the Docks district, only stopping when they were safely away from the compound, all the way in the edges of Lowtown, and she was certain no one had followed them.

“Hawke!” Sebastian caught her elbow before she collapsed in a heap onto the ground. “What in the Maker’s name is going on?”

“The Arishok ambushed us.” Aveline replied tersely, still trying to catch her breath. She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment. “My guardsmen were slaughtered.”

“The Qunari seem to have finally made their move,” Fenris observed, as coolly as if he were making a stray observation about the weather.

Varric snorted. “Your talent for understatement is really something, Broody.”

Hawke pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to take deep breaths against the nausea. Using so much magic in such a short space of time was something she wasn’t used to. _Using magic… shit._

“Fuck me with Andraste’s flaming sword,” Hawke muttered fervently, loud enough to make Sebastian say “Hawke!” with disapproval. She straightened, one hand clutching Sebastian’s forearm for balance, the beginnings of panic fluttering in her chest. “I just used my magic in broad daylight. Fuck!”

“No one saw except the Qunari,” Aveline offered.

But her attempt at reassurance only served to enrage Hawke further. She stabbed an accusatory finger at the Guard-Captain. “This is all your fault, Aveline! You just had to push the Arishok over the edge, didn’t you? And for bloody what?! A pair of pitiful elves who did Kirkwall a favor by taking out the trash!”

Aveline flushed, but her brows drew together in a stubborn line. “My duty is to uphold the law, Hawke! What do you think would have happened if I’d allowed the Arishok to harbor every criminal in Kirkwall claiming to want to join the Qun? Do you think _that_ wouldn’t have ended up in bloodshed? Either way, the Arishok doesn’t care about justice for elves; all he was waiting for was an excuse to attack the city. Listen!” She flung her hand outwards in the direction of Hightown, and they could all hear the faint noises of battle hovering in the air. “They’ve already begun. This was their plan all along!”

Hawke ground her teeth, forcing herself to pause and think past the anger and fear spidering through her veins,  threatening to cloud her judgement. Her mind was already racing with the possibility of being dragged to the Gallows in chains. _I hope Bethy’s saved a room for me_ , she thought, a hysterical giggle bubbling in her throat.

“Hawke.” Fenris was suddenly at her side. She met his calm gaze with a wide-eyed, frantic look of her own. “No one is going to take you anywhere you don’t want to go.” He spoke the words as a simple statement of fact, and she realized she’d blurted the last thought out loud in her panic.

Although she knew it was irrational – if the Templars were determined to take her in, one elf with a greatsword wasn’t going to be able to stop them, even if that one elf were Fenris – Hawke found herself able to reclaim her equanimity with a few deep breaths. She straightened, firmly pushing her clamoring emotions to one side. There were more pressing issues at hand. Her companions sensed the shift in her demeanor and unconsciously tensed towards her, ready to move on her word.

“The Qunari mean to take over the city.” Hawke was thinking out loud. “They’ll head to the Keep, then. They’ll need to subdue the Viscount before he can rally his forces or send word for help to the rest of the Free Marches.”

“Then that’s where we’ll have to go. If we move quickly, we may even be able to get there in time to warn the guards before the Qunari reach the Keep.” Aveline seemed eager to take some kind of action. Despite her earlier words, Hawke would have bet her best pair of daggers that the Guard-Captain was feeling more than a little responsible for the current chaos.

“I don’t mean to be the wet blanket here, but how exactly are we going to stop an army of nug-humping Qunari from doing whatever they damn please?” Varric queried in an exaggeratedly polite tone. “And what about Blondie and Daisy? Not to mention your sister, Hawke. Are we just going to leave them to their own devices while the city burns?”

Hawke bit her lip at the thought of Bethany but quickly shook her head. “They’re probably safer where they are at the moment. As for how we’re going to stop an army of rampaging Qunari, I haven’t the faintest idea. But we have to do _something._ ”

“You surprise me, Hawke.” Fenris remarked, his indifferent tone a strange contrast to the intensity of his gaze on her. “Kirkwall has done nothing but cause you grief. Are you so willing to put your life on the line for this cesspit? Maybe what the Arishok has planned for it would actually be for the better.”

Everyone paused to stare at the elf in disbelief. Varric was the first to react. “Well, that’s a bit harsh. Even for you.”

“Are you suggesting we just _allow_ the Qunari to take Kirkwall?” Sebastian demanded, immediately followed by Aveline growling, “You must have _completely_ lost your marbles, Fenris.”

Hawke ignored her companions, focusing on Fenris thoughtfully. “You’re not wrong,” she said slowly. “Kirkwall certainly _is_ a cesspit of the worst humanity has to offer.” She took in the rest of her companions, all looking at her silently, and she felt a warm surge of reassurance despite the peril they were about to plunge themselves into. Her merry band of misfits, from all corners of Thedas, all broken in some way, all somehow brought here to Kirkwall and now tied to her heart by strings of… fate? Chance? It didn’t matter, really. They were all here, now, and looking to her for guidance. She couldn’t fail them now.

“Kirkwall is a cesspit, but it’s _our_ cesspit.” Hawke said firmly. “And we are certainly not going to allow an army of invading Qunari take it without a fight.” She looked challengingly at Fenris. “Are you with us or not?”

Something resembling a smile flickered across Fenris’s face. His hand moved to briefly touch the strip of red bound to his wrist. “I am yours,” he said simply, meeting her eyes with a look that pierced straight into her heart.

“That’s all very romantic,” Varric interrupted dryly, “But do we have an actual _plan_ for dealing with an army of pissed off Qunari?”

Hawke shrugged with deliberate nonchalance. Fenris’s reminder of his vow to her made her want to smile like an idiot, but this really wasn’t the time to be mooning around. “Maybe if we tell them Isabela is long gone with the relic, they’ll leave off and go chasing after her.”

“Maybe the Arishok will fall on one knee and ask you to marry him,” Varric deadpanned.

Sebastian scratched his chin. “That would certainly be one solution to our problems.” He frowned. “I suppose it’s far too late to go after Isabela and retrieve the relic. Somehow I doubt the Arishok would patiently await our return.”

“Bloody Isabela.” Hawke muttered bitterly, her warm fuzzy feeling about her companions momentarily dampened. The betrayal of a woman she had considered her friend, even if that woman was a self-declared amoral pirate wench, hurt more than she cared to admit.

 “What do you expect from a whore with no morals?” Aveline snapped, although Hawke suspected she, too, was smarting from Isabela’s unexpected disappearance.

A muffled explosion several streets away made them all look up in alarm. “We’re wasting time.” Hawke unsheathed her daggers. She mentally prepared herself for the inevitable – without Merrill or Anders with them, she was very likely going to have to resort to magic sooner rather than later. _No use moaning about it now; we’ll have to survive this siege first and deal with the consequences later._ “We should probably prepare ourselves. Somehow I doubt our day is about to get any better.”

***

A couple of hours later, Hawke’s words had proved to be a gross understatement several times over. They had had to fight every step of their way to the Keep, Hawke flinging her magic around and Void take the consequences, only to face an irate Meredith, the Knight-Commander of the Kirkwall Templars herself, at the entrance to Hightown, icily furious at the revelation that the infamous Hawke had been an apostate all along. Then at the entrance of the Keep they had run into First Enchanter Orisno and Bethany, the only two survivors out of a handful of mages who’d left the Gallows to help against the siege. The sight of her sister in the middle of all the chaos had not improved Hawke’s mood one bit, but Bethany had been adamant that she was going to stay and fight. And when they’d finally managed to stop Orsino and Meredith squabbling like children over who was supposed to be in charge and get themselves into the Keep, they’d been greeted by the Viscount’s head rolling merrily along the plush red carpet, sending nobles screaming and scattering like a flock of startled chickens.

The only pleasant surprise of the day had been when Isabela had miraculously shown up at the metaphorical eleventh hour, the bloody relic tucked under her arm. She had been as brazen and unapologetic as she ever was as she tossed the book to the Arishok, and Hawke could have cheerfully strangled her, but the murderous impulse was subsumed under the instant flood of relief that had filled her at the prospect of the Qunari taking the relic and finally fucking off out of Kirkwall.

But of course, nothing was ever that easy.

In theory, giving Isabela to the Arishok would have been the right decision to make. She was a thief, after all, and what was the life of one pirate wench when weighed against the thousands of Kirkwall? But what had the thousands of Kirkwall ever done for her? Isabela had fought at her side, risked her life for Hawke more times than she could count. And after all, she _had_ come back and tried to make things right. Hawke just couldn’t bring herself to do it. She couldn’t sentence Isabela to a lifetime of Qunari captivity, even if she arguably deserved it.

Hawke had almost laughed when the Arishok challenged her to a duel over Isabela’s fate, as if they were two rivals for a maiden’s hand. V _arric will be thrilled. He couldn’t make this story more absurd if he tried._ If she won, at least she could be certain the Qunari would leave peacefully. They were an alien people with savage ways, but one thing she’d learned in the past few years was how seriously they took their promises. There was no possibility of them suddenly changing their minds if things did not go their way. They would cut off their horns and join the Chantry first.

On the other hand, if she lost…

Well, if she lost, then Kirkwall was really no longer her problem, was it? No one could blame her for not having tried her best if she literally ended up giving her life for this Maker-forsaken shithole.

The prospect was almost a relief.

“Hawke.”

Hawke blinked, realizing she’d become lost in her own thoughts. The Arishok had granted her request for some time to prepare herself before the duel, and now her friends were clustered around her, all talking at once in a chaotic cacophony of confusion. All except Fenris, who had called her name. He was looking at her silently, the only outward sign of consternation being the hard, tight line of his mouth.

“Could everyone please shut up?” Hawke snapped, getting their attention immediately. “Bethy, I could use a healing spell. Please.”

Her sister grabbed her hands immediately, and Hawke had to grit her teeth to keep from shouting in surprise as a heady wave of magic washed through her limbs, erasing the myriad minor injuries she’d incurred the past few hours. Compared to Anders’s healing it felt fumbling and clumsy; healing was not one of Bethany’s strengths. But it would do.

“Why are you doing this, Marian?” Bethany pleaded. “Let’s just attack and be done with it, there aren’t that many of them in the Keep. We can stall for time until the reinforcements can fight their way in. Marian!”

“Don’t do this, Hawke,” Isabella had her hands on her hips, her sapphire eyes brilliant in their frustration. “This is my mess. I don’t need you to intervene.”

“At least the whore has some self-awareness,” Aveline snarked. She had been vocal in her disagreement about handing Isabela over the Qunari, but clearly that didn’t mean she’d quite forgiven her either.

“Believe me, Bela, if I had a choice, I wouldn’t be preparing myself to fight a big burly Qunari twice my size on your behalf.” Hawke rolled her eyes in exasperation. “But you heard the Arishok. He won’t fight you; if you try to duel him, he’ll just order his soldiers to kill everyone and be done with it. At least this way we have the chance to send him all home with no one else getting hurt. Well, almost no one.”

Bethany flung her arms around her sister and hugged her so hard Hawke almost choked. “Don’t you dare lose this fight, sister!” She tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a stifled sob. “If you lose, Carver will never let you hear the end of it.”

“Having to face Carver’s smug face for the rest of eternity is certainly an incentive to stay alive,” Hawke said wryly. She gently managed to entangle herself from her sister’s arms, giving her a warm kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry, little sister. I’ll be fine.”

“Try not to win too quickly, Hawke. It won’t make for good dramatic tension, you know?” Varric shrugged, his voice deliberately casual.

Hawke laughed and punched him in the arm. “I will try to have at least one moment of weakness before my final victory, then. Maybe even a nearly mortal wound.”

“Let’s not get carried away with cheap theatrics.” Varric snorted, the worried wrinkles around his eyes giving the lie to his jesting tone.

“Maker be with you, Hawke,” Sebastian added, as solemn as a funeral.

Hawke flashed him an ironic grin in reply. “Hopefully not in the literal sense.”

She quickly turned away, not wanting to draw out the moment any longer – it felt too much like a possible farewell, and that was not something she wanted to dwell on. If today was her day to die, so be it. No point in mourning ahead of time, though. _The whole point of dying is to spare me the aftermath_ , she thought to herself darkly.

Fenris grabbed her elbow as she turned away, his lips in her ear so his words were only for her. “Do not hold back on your magic, Hawke. Do what you must to defeat him, and come back to us alive. That is the only thing that matters.”

She paused to look at him, his face only inches away from hers, and she couldn't help her mouth twisting in amusement. "Well, things must be dire if _you're_ encouraging me to use magic."

Fenris did not smile back. "Hawke."

She gently rested her fingers on the hand gripping her arm. “Promise me you will look after Bethany if things go wrong.”

“No,” he answered instantly, his grip tightening. “My vow is only to you, Marian Hawke. Do not go into this battle with the comforting reassurance that I will fulfill your death wish.”

Hawke laughed quietly. “You don’t fool me, Fenris.” She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t stop herself from pressing her lips briefly against his own, her sole acknowledgement that this moment together could be their last. Before he could react she turned away, shaking her arm out of his grasp as she strode to face the Arishok. The Qunari leader was standing impassively at the foot of the stairs, axe resting on his shoulder, looming over the crowd with an air of inevitability. Of death.

Hawke felt her lips curl in something between a smile and a snarl. She unsheathed her daggers and made a mocking, sweeping bow to the enemy. “Dance with me, Arishok.”

***

Fenris was no stranger to fear. As a slave, it had been his constant companion, lurking in the crevices of his mind, an insidious serpent coiled in the shadows, sometimes so still you almost (but never quite) forget it was there, other times coiled so tightly around your guts you could hardly breathe. His life after he’d met Hawke had been a very different one. Not fully free of fear, because no sane man can truly live a completely fearless life. But at least fear no longer ruled his every waking moment. And no matter what perils his new life would bring, Fenris couldn’t have imagined a scenario where he’d feel the same sort of humiliating fear that had once been a staple of his existence. The kind of _helples_ s fear where you had no control over what was happening and had no choice but to accept what the future brought you.

Yet here he was, standing in the heart of Kirkwall, that same paralyzing fear tightening his throat, clenching his insides and turning them into ice. Only this time, the fear wasn’t for himself.

He watched Hawke dance. She had taken the offensive early on, darting in to disorient the Arishok with a flurry of slashes, then hitting him with a spell of frost before he could react (to the collective gasps of everyone there to witness it). It was smart of her; she’d figured out early on that the Qunari were especially vulnerable to cold spells. But she was still a novice mage, and her weaker magic meant she couldn’t cast the same spell one after the other. And she had to conserve her mana much more than Anders or Merrill would. So she twirled and pirouetted between the Arishok’s powerful blows and thrusts, buying herself time before she could use her magic again, then hitting him as soon as she was ready. She was forced to be on the defensive, but she did not move like prey. She moved, as always, with the liquid confidence of a predator, wary of her foe but still dangerous. The Arishok towered over her like a mythical golem out of legend, his muscles rippling with impossible strength, and already the stone floor of the Keep was cratered from the blows of his axe. Hawke skipped around them, sure-footed, her sharp golden eyes riveted on her target. But Fenris knew that time was Hawke’s enemy. In a drawn-out battle, she would tire much sooner than the Arishok, not just magically but physically, and all it would take was a slip, a stumble, the slightest of mis-timings, and Hawke would be hacked in two by that terrible axe; a grisly, inglorious death.

He focused all of his energy into keeping his eyes locked onto Hawke, as if he could lend her his strength through sheer force of will. Each minute stretched into what seemed like an hour, until he could no longer gauge how much time had actually passed. He could see telltale signs of her creeping fatigue; her arms dropped to her sides more often, her chest rose and fell with her breaths. The Arishok was flagging too, blood flowing from several shallow gashes on his back. But to think he was nearing the end of his strength would have been a deadly miscalculation.

“Maker give her strength,” Sebastian whispered behind him.

“He hasn’t been very responsive lately,” Isabela muttered under her breath.

“Shut up, both of you,” Aveline hissed.

Fenris barely heard them. He was watching Hawke making a wide circle around the Arishok, a lioness taking the measure of an unwelcome intruder.

“Hawke won’t be able to wait him out like this.” Varric echoed Fenris’s thoughts, his usual good humor nowhere to be found in his grave tone. “Shit. It’s like he’s been carved from the Stone itself. He has enough blood to outlast several Hawkes.”

“She’d be mad to face him head on,” Isabela retorted. “She’d never get a second chance if she screwed it up the first time.”

 _Almost certain death or somewhat certain death? A hard decision indeed._ Fenris felt his mouth twist grimly despite himself. Hawke’s sense of humor was clearly rubbing off on him.

Mid-turn, she met his eyes briefly, almost as if she’d heard his thoughts, and he swore he saw a smile flicker across her face. It was the kind of smile she flashed whenever she had a particularly insane idea, a smile that lit up her eyes in a way that made his breath catch. It was the smile of a madwoman.

The Arishok was almost upon her, swinging his axe in a powerful sideways arc. She gracefully dodged it with a hairsbreadth to spare, but her next step faltered as she planted her foot where the tiles had been shattered by a previous missed blow. The Arishok’s reaction to her mistake was instant. He yanked his axe back towards him, shifting his grip higher up the shaft, driving it with full force into Hawke’s ribs.

Fenris was dimly aware of Bethany screaming as Hawke crumpled to her knees, coughing up blood that stained the white marble floor with crimson. The Arishok stood over her. A lesser opponent might have gloated; he merely looked down at her with what might have passed for respect. “You were a worthy foe, Hawke,” he rumbled.

Hawke looked up at him, still grinning madly despite the blood dripping from her mouth. Her breath was ragged and wet as she spoke. “So… were you… Arishok.”

The Qunari was only just starting to frown at her flippant reply when she whipped up her hands and hit his right arm with a powerful blast of ice magic. Fenris could feel the air around him crystallize with the ripples, his breath momentarily misting before his face. _She must have been hoarding her mana from the start, she fooled us all,_ he realized numbly. The Arishok stepped back in shock as his arm instantly turned white with frost, then hardened into solid, brittle ice.  His great axe clattered to the floor.

In the stunned silence, a dagger appeared in Hawke’s right hand. She stabbed the Arishok’s frozen arm with a savage cry.

The ice creaked. Shattered. And disintegrated onto the floor into countless shards, leaving a jagged stump at his elbow.

The Arishok roared, a terrifying animal sound of mingled pain and fury that caused many in the crowd to flinch away. His other hand shot out to grab Hawke’s right arm, and Fenris thought he could hear the sickening sound of her bones snapping under his grip. Her scream felt like a sharp knife twisting his vitals, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. But then he saw her golden eyes, still shining bright and predatory through her pain, and then he saw her other hand flash up and plunge her second dagger deep into her enemy’s neck.

He would never forget that moment – that heartbeat when everyone was still with shock, and the Arishok and Hawke seemed to be suspended in time. She was dangling in mid-air, looking almost childlike next to the massive Qunari warrior, one hand dangling limply above his deathly hold on her arm, the other still clutching the dagger that she’d pushed into his flesh. Her lips were curled back in a snarl that seemed incongruously playful. The remnants of the Arishok’s shattered limb were littered at their feet, mingling with the spray of Hawke’s blood, snow-white and rose-red.

The Qunari shoved Hawke away with the last of his strength as he fell, and with that the spell was broken. Hawke’s companions rushed forward as one, crowding around her crumpled form as the Arishok drew his last breath and the rest of the Qunari started to file out of the Keep, swiftly and silently, leaving as unceremoniously as they’d arrived all those years ago.

***

Hawke blinked and stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t the familiar warm wooden panels of her own bedroom. It was cold grey stone, strange and forbidding. But not completely unknown to her. Her eyes wandered around the room, taking in the sparse furnishings, the small barred window on the opposite wall, and then with a cold flash of understanding, she realized where she was.

She was in the Gallows.

With a frantic curse she tried to leap out of bed, but a sharp twinge in her side nearly took her breath away, and she doubled over in agony as she fell to the floor on her right arm. Her mind was blank with panic as she weakly tried to kick herself free of the sheets. _They can’t do this to me! I’ll kill myself first!_

“Hawke!” Suddenly Fenris was there at her side, his hands gently closing over her wrists. “Calm yourself. You’re not well enough to move yet.”

“Fenris?” she gasped. She stopped struggling, her breath ragged in her chest. He tried to help her up, but she clutched the front of his shirt in panic, ignoring the shock of pain shooting up her arm. “ _What the fuck am I doing here in the Gallows?_ ”

“You are still a free woman, Hawke.” He lifted her as easily as if she were a child and carefully put her back on the bed, then gently untangled her fingers from his shirt and held her hand tightly in his, crouched at her side. His voice was low and fierce. “Do you think I would have allowed them to chain you up while I still breathed?”

Hawke felt the chokehold of panic slowly loosen its grasp on her throat – not completely, but enough for her to draw a breath. “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

“You needed… a great deal of healing.” Fenris narrowed his eyes with sudden disapproval. “After your… heroics.” She felt her eyebrows shoot up at his tone, but he didn’t give her a chance to interrupt. “The others wanted to take you… take you elsewhere, to help you heal.” He raised one eyebrow meaningfully, and Hawke understood. They’d wanted to take her to Anders. “But there were too many eyes on us, and your wounds… required urgent attention. So we brought you here, where the mage healers could keep an eye on your convalescence. It’s… taken longer than we expected.” He briefly looked away. “The healers said there was a lot bleeding inside of you, and that the Arishok had shattered your arm in several places.” Hawke couldn’t help but flinch at the memory, unconsciously cradling her right arm closer as a phantom shock of pain rippled through it. Fenris’s fingers tightened around her hands. “So that is why you are still here. But you are not a prisoner.”

Hawke laughed bitterly, though the pain that followed made her hiss under her breath. “Aren’t I? Meredith will hardly let me out of her clutches, now that she knows the truth.”

Fenris shook his head. “Hawke. You single-handedly saved Kirkwall from being taken over by the Qunari. The entire nobility of the city witnessed your… ‘reckless devotion to your adopted home,’ as Varric so poetically put it. Meredith is no fool. She knew which way the wind was blowing, and she chose to accept the inevitable rather than have another riot on her hands.”

Hawke furrowed her brow, unsure of what he was leading up to. “What in the Maker’s name are you talking about, Fenris?”

His mouth twisted in a wry half-smile. “She named you Champion of Kirkwall. In front of everyone. She wanted to make it seem like it was her idea, I don’t doubt. The Knight-Commander is no fool.”

Hawke gaped at him in disbelief. “Please tell me you are joking.”

He shook his head and shot her an unreadable look. “I thought you’d be pleased. Your foolish stunt has earned you a place in the history books.”

“Foolish?” she repeated indignantly, glaring at him in disbelief. “What was foolish about it? I won, didn’t I?”

Fenris abruptly let go of her hand and stood up, turning away from her and crossing his arms as if he couldn’t bear to look at her anymore. “You clearly had a death wish,” he said harshly over his shoulder, the edges of his voice jagged with emotion.

She huffed angrily, though she had to admit to herself that he wasn’t too far off the mark. Hadn’t she let herself think that death might have been the easier way out? _Be honest with yourself, woman, it would have been the coward’s way out._ “If I’d truly had had a death wish, then I would be dead. Give me that much credit, at least.” Her bitter words caused him to turn just slightly towards her, his profile at its stoniest. “Fenris.” Her voice was soft, wanting to make him understand. “I had to make a choice. You of all people must have known that I had no chance of winning without taking some kind of risk.”

He didn’t turn around right away, and she closed her eyes with a sigh. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t been tempted to just let the Arishok kill her and be done with it. That was how the fight would have ended anyway, the way it’d been going. And no one would have blamed her, because no one would have known. She was tired, so tired, of fighting for a city that seemed determined to destroy itself, that had caused her nothing but angst ever since she’d arrived at its gates. But in the end, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to take the coward’s way out. It hadn’t mattered that everyone would have remembered her as a tragic heroine and no one would have been the wiser. She would have died knowing she’d betrayed the trust of everyone she knew and cared about. It would have haunted her to the Void and beyond.

Of course, her “foolish stunt” had been little short of suicidal as well, but even had the worst-case scenario come to pass, Hawke had been fairly certain she’d be able to take the Arishok down with her. Then, at least, she would have been able to close her eyes with a clean conscience.

“Hawke.”

Pulled out of her morbid musings, she met Fenris’s gaze reluctantly, unsure of what she would find there. But his green eyes were softer than usual as they looked into her own. “Champion of Kirkwall.” There was only sincerity in his tone, now. “Your foolishness was… magnificent.” He spoke quietly but with intense conviction, and her heart filled at his words. It was foolish indeed, but his praise for her suddenly made her feel that it had all been worth it. His regard meant more to her than any honors Kirkwall could bestow. “This city doesn’t deserve you, Marian Hawke.”

She laughed softly. “Well, too late. They’re stuck with me now, I’m afraid.”


	15. Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years have passed, and Kirkwall teeters on a knife's edge.

“Seems a bit early to be hitting the bottle so hard, don’t you think?”

Hawke emptied the shot glass of cheap whiskey down her throat and favored Varric with a toothy grin. “You live in a tavern, Varric. You’re hardly one to be talking about appropriate drinking times.”

Varric shrugged and took a seat across from her, shaking his head when she offered him the bottle. “Believe it or not, living here has actually made drinking a less attractive pastime for me. Being surrounded by drunken idiots on a daily basis tends to do that to you.”

Hawke poured herself another shot with a laugh. “You should get out more around Kirkwall, my fine dwarven friend. Your appetite for alcohol will be roaring back in no time.” She tossed the drink back and wiped her mouth with a grimace. Her hand reached for the bottle again, but this time Varric moved it out of her reach with a good-natured tutting sound.

“Will you at least tell me what’s on your mind before you go blind drinking this shit?”

She blinked at him indignantly. “Are you denying the fucking Champion of Kirkwall her rightfully earned booze?”

Varric stared at her, unimpressed by her glare, and finally she shrugged and sighed theatrically. “Fine. You want me to list all the reasons I have to get blighted in the middle of the day.”  Her cheeks were already warm with the two shots she had managed to down before Varric had cut her off. “One.” She held up a finger deliberately, right in front of Varric’s nose. “My sister is still stuck inside the Gallows with no hope for any kind of future that doesn’t involve Templars breathing down her back every time she tries to so much as change her socks.”

“Two.” She lowered her voice and held up another finger. “Our darling hobo apostate is glowing blue more often than not these days, and it’s probably only a matter of time before he snaps and eats a few Templars for breakfast.”

“Three.” She held up another finger with a flourish. “Our OTHER resident apostate is still trying to open a portal so she can invite a demon over for tea.” She was perversely enjoying the look of resigned surrender growing on Varric’s face as she continued “Four. Meredith refuses to give up the stranglehold she has on Kirkwall and its mages, and Orisno is openly fermenting rebellion in the streets. And if that weren’t enough, our esteemed Auntie Elthina is unwilling to do anything more drastic than sending those two to their rooms without their supper!” Hawke wiggled her fingers and scrutinized them with a raised eyebrow. “Would that count as a separate item on the list? I think it should.” She spread out the five fingers on her right hand and shoved them in Varric’s direction. “Satisfied?”

“Oh, give over, Varric, and let the poor woman drink her rat droppings in peace.” Isabela plopped herself down at their table and swiped the bottle from Varric, swigging directly from the bottle before handing it over to Hawke.

Hawke made a face at Isabela’s colorful description of the whiskey. “Thanks for nothing, Bela.” She waved the bottle away with a disgusted noise.

“Your loss.” The pirate shrugged as she took another drink. Hawke eyed her with equal parts annoyance and affection. In the immediate aftermath of the Qunari attack, Isabela had studiously avoided her for the better part of a half a year. When Hawke had finally confronted her, Isabela initial reaction had been to express regret over the fact that she’d come back to Kirkwall with the relic instead of running off into the sunset. She had blamed Hawke for her “corrupting influence.” Hawke smiled to herself at the memory. The idea that she, Marian Hawke, a mercenary for hire and an apostate to boot, had somehow brought out the best in an amoral pirate wench was highly amusing and improbable at the same time.

“What are you smiling about, Hawke?” Varric asked, interrupting her thoughts.

She shrugged casually. “I was just thinking you could start a spin-off series about a feisty pirate wench who is hiding a heart of gold, locked away deep inside her, the only key held by the gorgeous dark-haired Champion of Kirkwall.”

Isabela almost spat out her third swallow of whiskey. “Only in your wildest dreams, Hawke.”

Varric rubbed his chin. “Smut’s never really been my thing. But something like that would probably triple my sales. Especially with the right kind of cover art. I’m thinking…”

“Oooh, let me!” Isabela cut him off eagerly. “Picture it. The Champion and I, wrestling in a mud puddle. She has me pinned down on the ground, arm twisted behind my back, but she can’t take her eyes off my perfectly round arse. Her bosoms are exposed and heaving, and you can see her nipples poking out through her shirt. What do you think?”

Varric cleared his throat. “That sounds more like _your_ wildest dreams, Rivaini, not Hawke’s.”

Hawke giggled. “Meredith would have a stroke. She already hates the fact that the Champion of Kirkwall is an apostate. The only thing that would make it worse is the Champion being a _slutty_ apostate.”

“Meredith Stannard, Knight-Commander of Kirkwall.” Isabela drawled out the woman’s full title with as much scorn as she could possibly muster. “Also queen of having a stick up one’s arse. If someone would just shag that poor woman it would solve a lot of our problems.”

Varric winced. “Say it a bit louder, why don’t you? I know you’re into some kinky shit, but being chained up by a bunch of pissed-off Templars is not my idea of a good time.”

Isabela flipped her dark hair over her shoulder and leaned in closer, thankfully lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think it’s true that she lets Cullen sheathe his sword in her scabbard?”

Hawke groaned and shook her head to rid herself of the disturbing mental image. “Bela, please. I’ve just had my lunch.”

Isabela sat back with a pout. “You two are no fun.”

***

Hawke found herself lost in thought as she made her way home from The Hanged Man, ever so slightly tipsy after Isabela convinced her to help finish the bottle of rat whiskey. Spending the afternoon bantering with Varric and Isabela had definitely served to take her mind off all the woes she’d listed to Varric earlier, but now that she was alone they re-surfaced, invading her mind like so many persistent weeds. She tried to push them away. At the end of the day, there was really nothing she could do about anything. The title of Champion was little more than a sop to her vanity, a shiny tin medal that might impress the common folk but held little influence over the people that mattered.

Meredith had been the real power in Kirkwall following the Viscount’s death, and as long as the Templars remained loyal to her, there was not much to be done. Grand-Cleric Elthina was probably the only person who had any real hope of changing things, but the elderly Chantry mother seemed far too content to leave everything in the Maker’s hands. Oh, she would appear in the main square and make a show of breaking up public disputes between the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter. Despite looking like a particularly kind and indulgent great-aunt, Elthina could summon an aura of authority that quelled even Meredith, when she chose. But the problem was that the Grand-Cleric refused to take a clear side or voice a decisive opinion. Initially, Hawke had held a begrudging respect for her principles, but as Kirkwall edged ever closer to a full-blown meltdown, that respect was also slipping away.

In the immediate aftermath of her duel with the Arishok, Kirkwall had been united in their sense of triumph against a common foe, but it hadn’t taken long for chaos to once again take hold. And without the issue of the Qunari to distract everyone, nor a clear leader to make the necessary decisions, things had only gotten worse. Hawke knew it was only a matter of time before things bubbled over – but what would that actually look like was anybody’s guess.

 _It will look like a shower of shit_ , she thought sourly. _And I will be expected to clean it up. As usual._

“Good evening, my lady.” Bodahn greeted her at the door with a bow. “Messere Vael is here to see you. I told him you were out, but he said he would wait for you to return.”

“Mmm.” Hawke wasn’t sure if she wanted to see Sebastian just now – his conversation was most likely going to be far less entertaining than Isabela’s or Varric’s – but she supposed it would be rude to send him away at this point. Her stomach grumbled, clearly unhappy about being fed cheap whiskey and no food. “Could you send in something to eat, Bodahn? I’m starving.”

The exiled Prince of Starkhaven was flipping through a book when she entered the room, looking as tall and handsome as ever. He had traded his armor for more conventional nobility attire – a doublet of midnight blue that complimented his piercing eyes, the shade of a perfect winter sky. Hawke instantly felt shabby in her well-worn leather corset armor and plain brown leggings, but to dress like Sebastian would have called unwanted attention to herself in Lowtown, and to go and get changed would have felt awkward at this point. She shrugged to herself as she unbuckled the daggers from her belt. _At least I don’t have any bloodstains on my boots today._

“Hawke.” He greeted her, his familiar Starkhaven accent making her smile as it always did. “And how’s your day been?”

“Oh, you know.” She flashed him a mischievous grin as she walked over to join him at the bookshelves. “Spent my morning breaking up a spat between Meredith and Orisno, spent my afternoon drinking The Hanged Man’s whiskey to deal with the headache that followed. The usual.”

He looked down at her, his brows furrowed. “Elthina told me what happened this morning. She is concerned that both Meredith’s and Orisno’s tempers grow shorter by the day.”

Hawke blew out a short breath of wry amusement. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Sebastian chuckled even as he shook his head in disapproval. “I’m serious, Hawke. Meredith has grown more and more paranoid and power-hungry ever since the Qunari left, and to say the mages resent her would be putting it mildly.”

 _No shit!_ was on the tip of Hawke’s tongue, but she swallowed her ire and took a moment to measure her words. “So when is the Grand-Cleric actually going to do something about it? Before or after the Gallows explodes in a giant fireball of angry mages and Templars?”

Sebastian stiffened disapprovingly. He could never bear any criticism against the Grand-Cleric; clearly he thought the sun shone out of that woman’s arse. “Elthina is a wise woman, Hawke, and wise people never rush into doing things that cannot be undone.”

“No, apparently, they just sit on their hands until the decision to actually do something is made for them.” Hawke was hungry, half-tipsy, and running out of patience. She crossed her arms and leaned towards Sebastian, meeting his angry gaze without flinching. “Be honest with me, O Prince of Starkhaven. Any halfwit can see that Kirkwall is on the verge of… Maker only knows what. Nothing good. Only this time, it’s not going to be an external enemy we can unite against. It’s going to be civil war in the streets, and it’s going to be bloody.”

His mouth tightened stubbornly, emphasizing the hard lines of his square jaw. Then he let out a long breath. “I cannot disagree with you, Hawke. But Elthina will not be moved. She is determined that taking a side will only lead to more violence, and that she will not abide.” He shook his head. “The empty seat of the Viscount is what allows Meredith to continue her stranglehold on power. Her arrogance knows no bounds.” He lowered his voice. “Elthina is worried that the Divine will resort to drastic measures to quell the unrest here, unless Meredith starts listening to reason.”

Hawke’s eyes widened, but Orana chose that moment to knock and enter with a tray of tea and snacks. Hawke waited impatiently for her to put the tray down and leave before she turned to Sebastian, the first stirrings of foreboding churning in her stomach. “Drastic measures. What do you mean, drastic measures?”

Sebastian shifted uncomfortably. “There isn’t proof of anything, only rumors…”

Hawke felt a wave of exasperation and anger ripple through her. “Void take you, Sebastian, tell me what you know!”

He stared at her in shock, but something in her face prompted him to say hastily, “There was a rumor that Meredith sent to Val Royeaux to ask the Divine for the Right of Annulment.”

Hawke felt all the blood drain from her limbs, and she had to reach for the bookcase to steady herself. Sebastian grabbed her elbow in alarm. “Hawke! Are you all right?”

She heard herself laugh, shrill and unhinged. “You’ve just told me that Meredith is planning to execute all the mages in the Gallows, which in case you’ve forgotten would include my sister. Do you think I’m bloody all right?”

“Hawke, it’s a rumor.” Sebastian shook her elbow for emphasis. “And even if it were true, the Divine clearly denied her request.”

Hawke took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. Her head was pounding with adrenaline and cheap whiskey. She made her way to the table and poured herself a cup of tea while stuffing a slice of ham and bread in her mouth, chewing furiously as her mind tried to process what she’d just heard.

Sebastian was watching her with something between concern and amusement. “Have you not eaten today, Hawke?”

She washed down her last mouthful with some tea and swallowed, then carelessly wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “Being the Champion of Kirkwall is hungry business,” she informed him. “And if I’m going to have to contemplate Meredith killing my sister, I won’t do it on an empty stomach.”

He approached her cautiously. “I apologize, Hawke, I shouldn’t even have brought up those rumors. I only mentioned them to stress to you how urgent it is for us to fill the Viscount seat with someone more stable than Meredith. She may be a brilliant Knight-Commander, but she is not made to rule a city.”

Hawke barked a laugh. “You’ll get no argument from me. But who else is there? And more importantly, who would dare set themselves against Meredith Stannard?” She rolled her eyes in disbelief. “She’s been the kingmaker in Kirkwall for as long as anyone can remember. Any new Viscount would have to have some brass balls to openly oppose her.”

Sebastian stepped closer to her and, after a moment’s hesitation, took her hand. She stared at him in surprise, but he was looking at her earnestly. “Who better to rule Kirkwall than its Champion?”

Hawke looked into his clear blue eyes, so full of certainty and purpose, and wondered if he, too, had gone a little insane. “Very funny, Sebastian. Is this your subtle way of telling me I’m starting to think too highly of myself?” She couldn’t help a cheeky grin. “Or that you think I’m hiding a cock in my trousers?”

The former Chantry brother seemed unamused by her jest. “I’m deadly serious, Hawke.” He looked at her intently. “You have the respect of all of Kirkwall. No one has forgotten how you saved the city from the Qunari, and everything you’ve done since then has only built your reputation even further. Everyone knows how you’ve stood up for the wronged, the helpless, the downtrodden, regardless of the law or the danger to yourself. If you became Viscount, the entire city would be behind you.”

Hawke had to laugh at his certainty. “Except for the Templars. You remember them, right? The hundreds of men with the shiny armor and the big swords?”

Sebastian shook his head, unmoved by her disbelief. “Do you think all of them agree with what Meredith’s been up to these past three years? There is discontent in the ranks, though they hide it well from outsiders. But discontent there is. And you have the ear of the Knight-Captain himself. Everything I’ve heard of him points to him being a good man, a man of principles. I’ve no doubt you could persuade him to your cause. You can be very persuasive when you choose to be.”

Hawke had a sudden vision of herself trying to seduce Cullen in his office in the Gallows and bit her tongue to contain her amusement. Sebastian could clearly sense her refusal to take him seriously and frowned. “Hawke. Don’t you fear for your sister’s future?”

That sobered her in an instant. She looked up at him sharply, and whatever he saw caused him to tense, though he still held her hands in his. “Why are you dragging Bethany into this?”

“I’m trying to be realistic, Hawke. Surely you agree with me that the mages are being pushed to the breaking point. If it comes to open rebellion, no one will emerge unscathed.”

Hawke was silent for a few moments. She didn’t disagree with anything Sebastian was saying, but the thought of ruling Kirkwall was so foreign to her she could barely even contemplate it. She’d spent most of her time in Kirkwall skulking in its shadows. “Sebastian, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m an apostate and a mercenary. I solve problems by stabbing people. I’m no ruler. Even if by some miracle I managed to sit in the Viscount’s seat, I’d run Kirkwall into the ground.”

Sebastian’s grip tightened. “I would help you, Hawke. If you’d accept me.” Hawke stared at him in bafflement. His face was alight with fervor, but the light in his eyes was something sharper. Something less pure. _Ambition_ , Hawke thought to herself. “Think of it. An alliance between Starkhaven and Kirkwall would be one of the most powerful alliances the Free Marches has ever seen. And we would be good rulers, because we care about our people. About doing the right thing.”

Hawke swallowed. Sebastian’s face was so close to hers that their noses were almost touching. She could feel the heat from his mouth hovering over hers, and to her chagrin she felt a tingle of anticipation in her belly at the thought of their lips and tongues meeting. “Are you… are you asking me to marry you?” she said in disbelief.

“Not yet.” He shook his head. “Neither of us are in any position to be considering marriage at the moment. I’m only asking you to consider the possibility, Hawke.” Hawke stared at him, still trying to process what he was saying. With his perfectly chiseled nose and cleft chin, he truly could have been a prince out of a fairytale. But this was hardly the fairytale proposal. “If you only say the word, I will come to you on blended knee, but only after I’ve reclaimed Starkhaven and can rightfully call myself its prince once more. I would offer you no less.”

Hawke inhaled and pulled her hands away before taking a step back. She crossed her arms across her chest and shook her head. “We can’t get married, Sebastian. We don’t love each other.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Are you a romantic, Hawke?”

She felt her cheeks heat up but refused to allow him to embarrass her. “You were a Chantry brother not so long ago. I’m surprised you can be so cynical about this. Wouldn’t the Maker frown upon a marriage born of political ambition rather than true love?”

“Marriage is a partnership of equals that is more than the sum of its parts, and that is what our marriage would be,” he replied smoothly. “You are an extraordinary woman, Hawke. Your beauty makes the noblewoman of Kirkwall look like cheap paste jewels overshadowed by the brilliance of a true gem, and it is only surpassed by your unmatched courage.” The extravagant compliment should have made her laugh, but spoken in that deep voice with that irresistible Starkhaven burr, it made her blush. She hated itself for it, but she found herself caught under the spell of his words, spoken in an intimate tone meant only for her ears. “I have fought at your side these past years and have seen with my own eyes how you are willing to risk your life time and again for what you believe is right. How can any man resist the opportunity to be your consort? He would have to be blind, or stupid, or insane. Perhaps all three.”

That last part was too pointed to be anything but a veiled insult to a certain mutual acquaintance of theirs, but she chose to ignore it, trying to hide her confused feelings behind a grin. “I never knew you were such a poet, Sebastian. Are all Chantry brothers as eloquent as you are?”

“The only eloquence I need is the truth.” He answered her humor with a smile of his own, but it was charming and sincere, and it only made her cheeks hotter. “But I’ve probably said too much for one day. I will take my leave, then. But I hope you give my words more thought, Hawke. Perhaps some contemplation will make you realize the sense of them.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips in a graceful gesture, then made his exit, leaving her more confused and conflicted than even before. She closed her eyes briefly and blew out a breath of frustration. _Thanks for nothing, Sebastian._ The still almost full tray of food caught her eye, and she smiled wryly. _At least this means more sandwiches for me._

***

The next morning, Hawke rose early and made her way to Sundermount to meet Anders. These magic practice sessions had become more frequent once she’d recovered from her duel with the Arishok almost three years ago. Anders had been both proud and appalled when he’d learned how Hawke had defeated the Arishok – proud that she’d openly used her magic to save the city, but appalled that she’d nearly killed herself to do it. He’d scolded her that she shouldn’t have had to get so close to her enemy to pull off what she’d done. And so he’d convinced her she needed to focus even more on honing her magical skills if she meant to keep using them. She still wasn’t comfortable using her magic too openly – Meredith couldn’t touch her as long as she remained Kirkwall’s Champion, but she certainly didn’t want to test the limits of the Knight-Commander’s tolerance. But she continued to practice with Anders in secret whenever she could, even though it usually meant dealing with his disapproval of her reluctance to do more for the mages in the Gallows. Hawke had defied Meredith more often than she personally thought was prudent, but at the same time she’d also helped the Templars track down runaway apostates, those she’d deemed a danger to others. Anders was, of course, full of disapproval, but Hawke wasn’t about to be swayed. Her mother’s absence was a daily reminder to her of what could happen when magic went wrong.

On this particular day, she was trying out a spell she’d found in a book Orsino had smuggled to her from his personal library. It was a spell that was supposed to slam objects into the ground, as if crushed by an invisible hand. The trick was to focus the power into a manageable circle so it didn’t flail out wildly and hurt an ally, or miss an enemy entirely and crush some random object instead. Hawke tried to focus, but her meeting with Sebastian yesterday kept creeping into her mind, and she found it impossible to concentrate.

“Hawke.” Anders stopped her with an exasperated gesture after her last attempt came perilously close to flattening a passing rabbit that was nowhere close to the tree she’d been targeting. “Stop, before you end up crushing us both into bits. What is wrong with you today?”

Hawke sighed and flopped herself onto the grass in defeat. “Sorry. I’m just distracted.”

He folded his arms, and she thought she sensed Justice in the lines of his tense muscles, though his eyes remained dark and human. “I heard you had a chat with Orsino and Meredith in the public square yesterday.”

She snorted. “Save your lecture, Anders. Neither of them want to listen to what I have to say anyway. You always seem to think I have far more influence than I actually have.”

“You could have a lot more influence if you cared to.” Anders countered sternly.

Hawke stared at him, wondering what he’d say if she told him about Sebastian’s proposal. He’d probably try to turn him into a pile of dust; the two of them did not get along, and Anders had a disconcerting habit of disapproving of any potential love interests in Hawke’s life. He’d barely been able to contain his glee when it became clear she and Fenris were remaining in a platonic friendship following that disastrous one-night stand.

Hawke had had moments of feeling attraction to men other than Fenris. To Sebastian, occasionally – something about the Starkhaven burr was irresistible, and when he wasn’t spouting Chantry verses he had a good sense of humor. Even to Cullen, once or twice. The Knight-Captain’s gruff demeanor and his obvious inexperience with women made for a sort of awkward charm. But not Anders. She couldn’t have explained why. He was not bad-looking, in a scruffy, unkempt sort of way. He was intelligent and funny when he wanted to be; she had no trouble talking to him for hours about anything from kittens to Ferelden history. But the warm affection she felt for him had no spark in it. No flutter of anticipation, no tingle of desire. It was a comfortable thing, but nothing more.

She abruptly realized she’d been staring at him blankly for much too long and cleared her throat, avoiding his questioning gaze. “Sebastian said… Sebastian suggested that I could replace Dumar as Viscount.”

Anders looked at her with a comically appalled expression on his face, as if she’d just told him she planned to give up her magic and join the Templars. “And why in the Maker’s name would you want to do that?”

It was her turn to give him an uncomprehending look. “I thought you’d be pleased. If I became Viscount, I would have real influence. The actual power to change something in this mess of a city. I could overrule Meredith, protect the mages in the Circle. Stop the Templars from abusing their power. Isn’t that what you want?”

“No!” He was vehement in his denial, slashing the air with his hand for emphasis. “That would make you part of the problem, Hawke. Don’t you see? We don’t need a viscount making things easier for Circle mages. We don’t need a viscount to solve our problems for us, period. We need mages to solve their own problems. Starting with the existence of the Circles to begin with!”

Hawke realized she was staring at him, open-mouthed in disbelief. She abruptly shut her mouth and clenched her teeth together with the beginnings of anger. “You think the way to solve the current crisis is for mages to tear down the Gallows in a blaze of glory?”

“Why not?” Anders laughed wildly. “The system is broken, Hawke. Mages can never be treated fairly as long as Circles exist. Destroying them is the first step towards our liberty. Towards forcing others to see us as fellow human beings.”

Hawke barked a humorless laugh. “You are insane, Anders, if you think mages staging some kind of mass rebellion is going to endear ourselves to our ‘fellow human beings,’ as you so eloquently put it.”

“Are you saying mages deserved to be confined and abused for their entire lives? For the mere sin of being born with magic?” There was definite blue in his eyes now, and energy crackled around him, making her hair stand on end. But she’d known Justice for over half a decade at this point, and she refused to be bullied by him.

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Anders,” she snapped. “You know that’s not what I think. I’m just trying to be realistic. Demanding that the Circles be broken is hardly going to convince people that mages mean no harm. Especially if you go all deep-voiced and blue-eyed while you’re doing it.”

Her jest seemed to startle Anders, and he blinked, the light in his eyes fading. “I… I’m sorry.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Justice… is a bit restless these days.”

“Anders.” Hawke reached out to squeeze his shoulder with real affection. “Let’s stop here today. You need some rest. Maybe stop being dark and angry for just a few hours and have lunch with me at home.”

He gave her a tired smile. “Thank you, but I think I just want to take a walk and clear my head. I’ll see you later at The Hanged Man, maybe.”

She watched him stride off, chewing her lip thoughtfully. She did have some sympathy for him despite his crazy ideas; his past experience with Templars had understandably soured him on the idea of Circles, and no one could deny that the circle in Kirkwall was broken beyond repair… but she had none for the demon – yes, demon – inhabiting his body. Justice was a menace, as all justice became without mercy or wisdom to temper it. But there was nothing to be done; she was nowhere near skilled enough to even begin contemplating how one would go about separating the two of them at this point, and she couldn’t ask anyone for advice without giving Anders away. She had contemplated asking Bethany to do some research, but she didn’t want her sister worrying. Bethany had enough to worry about, living in the Gallows.

 _So many problems; no good options. The story of my life._ Hawke let out an exasperated sigh and whirled around on her heel to make her way back to Kirkwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sort of "interlude" chapter - apologies for no Fenris. There will be plenty of him in the next one!
> 
> Also life has been turned upside down at the moment with the current virus panic. Will do my best to keep writing though.


	16. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You may be a stubborn, brooding arsehole, Fenris, but you do have friends."

“My lady, do you have a moment?”

“Of course, Bodahn.” Hawke was only half listening as she thumbed through a random volume from her library, in search of something she could read with Fenris. She made a mental note to visit the bookseller soon; at the moment her collection was an eclectic collection of magic spells, Varric’s serials, a few esoteric history and philosophy books, and some trashy romance novels courtesy of Isabela. With a sigh she set aside _Hard in Hightown_ as the best of a bad bunch. She then turned to Bodahn, who was lingering in the doorway, fidgeting nervously in a way that was most unlike him. “Is something wrong?”

“Ah, not precisely.” He cleared his throat. “I was… I was thinking it might be time for my boy and me to move on. From Kirkwall.”

Hawke stared at him, unsure she had heard him correctly. “Move on from Kirkwall?” she repeated with a nervous laugh. “What are you talking about, Bodahn? Move on to where?”

“Please, my lady, I hope you’re not offended.” Bodahn wrung his hands, his eyes averted. “Serving the Champion of Kirkwall is an honor, make no mistake. And you’ve been nothing but good to us. But… I’m getting old, and…” He looked at Hawke then, his pale eyes pleading with her to understand. “I’ve got Sandal’s future to think of.”

Hawke suddenly felt the beginnings of panic rise through her chest, and she held her breath for a moment as she fought to keep it down, startled by its intensity. She tried to cover it with her best charming smile. “Bodahn, you know I would always take care of you and Sandal.”

“That’s very kind of you, my lady.” Bodahn bobbed his head. “But you see, he’s been offered a position in Orlais, by the Empress himself! Apparently word has gotten round about his talents with runeworking.” A beam of pride shone through the anxiety on his face for a brief moment. Hawke was shocked into silence, and he went on. “Can you imagine? Us at the Imperial Court! But you see, I hope you understand… a position like that could set him up for life. I can’t in good conscience turn the offer down, you see?”

Hawke had no idea what her face looked like, but Bodahn quickly reached out a hand with a worried expression creasing his homely features. “I’m so sorry, my lady. Do you need to sit down?”

“What? No, no.” Hawke shook her head and gave herself a mental slap. _Pull yourself together, Marian!_ “I apologize, it’s just so sudden, and… whatever am I going to do without you, Bodahn? Who will clean the bloodstains from the carpet?” She tried to laugh it off, but her voice sounded lost and plaintive to her own ears.

“My lady, I wouldn’t dream of leaving you in the lurch.” The dwarf seemed both offended and upset at the idea. “Of course I will make arrangements so the household will run smoothly after we leave.” He paused for a moment. “Actually, I was thinking I might leave things in Orana’s hands, my lady. If you don’t object.”

“Orana?” Hawke echoed.

“Yes, she’s grown quite a bit since she first joined us,” Bodahn observed warmly, a fond smile crossing his face. Hawke definitely agreed with him there – the elven woman had become almost a completely different person in the past few years. Still soft-spoken, still absolutely devoted to Hawke, but she had lost that hunched-over, flinching demeanor she’d had in the early days. She even taught herself to read and do her sums. Hawke could barely remember what life at the estate had been like before Orana had been there. “I think she’d do very well, with a little more training,” Bodahn went on. “What does my lady think?”

“Only if that’s what she wants,” Hawke answered, a bit hesitantly. Her initial shock at Bodahn’s announcement was now being tempered by guilt. Kirkwall was becoming more unstable with each passing day; of course Bodahn would want to take his son and get the hell out. She had no right to ask anyone to stay in this Void-forsaken place.

“That girl would follow you to the ends of the earth, I have no doubt,” Bodahn reassured her.

Hawke laughed a little. “I would be happy enough if she agreed to stay here with me in Kirkwall.”

“Pardon me, my lady, but have you considered leaving yourself?” Bodahn ventured. “Kirkwall is… well, it’s never been what you’d call peaceful, I suppose, but things only seem to be getting worse, what with the Templars and the mages and all.” He made a vague gesture with his hands to indicate the general chaos. “I do worry about you, my lady.”

To her embarrassment, Hawke found her eyes smarting with unexpected tears. “Oh, Bodahn.” Impulsively she threw her arms around her steward and gave him a quick hug. “I’m happy for you and Sandal, but I’ll miss you so much. Maybe one day I’ll come visit you in Orlais. If you haven’t grown too high and mighty by then, of course.” She pulled back and grinned mischievously.

Bodahn was looking a little misty-eyed himself. “Never, my lady. May the ancestors take me if that ever happens. Our door will always be open to you, have no fear.”

After he left, Hawke allowed herself a moment of self-pity, burying her face in her hands with a muffled curse. She knew it was selfish of her to want Bodahn to stay, but really this was the last thing she needed right now. Never had she felt more alone. Anders halfway to becoming an abomination, Merrill still obsessed with fixing her magic mirror, Aveline wrapped up in the City Guard and her new husband, Isabela constantly mooning over getting a new ship so she could sail off to Maker only knew where. Bethany, trapped in a Circle that was slowly being choked to death by the insanely paranoid Knight-Commander. Varric, at least, was still Varric, a blessed constant in the chaos of her life. And of course there was Sebastian, who still hadn’t quite given up his grand hopes for a Kirkwall-Starkhaven alliance.

 _You still have Fenris_ , she told herself. It was true, Fenris had always been at her side when she needed him, a silent but faithful wolf, her sigil on his belt and her colors bound around his wrist. They had made their vows to each other that fateful day three years ago ( _like some sort of bizarre wedding ceremony where you swear to remain celibate with each other_ , Hawke thought with bitter humor) and both of them had kept their vows perfectly. But Hawke was acutely aware that Fenris hadn’t sworn to stay by her side forever. And lately he had seemed restless and withdrawn, unable to focus on their reading lessons, unwilling to share whatever was on his mind. She wondered if he, too, was soon going to tell her his time in Kirkwall had come to an end. And if he did, what could she do? She had no claim on him other than their friendship, such as it was. It was silly to think he was still in any way indebted to her. If he wanted to leave Kirkwall and start a new life elsewhere, who was she to stop him?

Of course, there was Danarius. He had been perfectly quiet these past three years, but that was in no way comforting. Hawke had asked both Varric and Aveline to keep their ears to the ground regarding any suspicious activity in Kirkwall that could possibly be linked to Tevinter, but neither of them had come up with anything. One might be tempted to think the magister had given up, but then one would be an idiot. Hawke hadn’t forgotten Hadriana, and neither, she presumed, had Fenris.

Or… was she just using the threat of Danarius as an excuse to keep Fenris in Kirkwall? Was it that impossible to think that the loss of his favorite apprentice and her entire company of mages and soldiers might have persuaded Danarius that Fenris was no longer worth it?

Hawke abruptly straightened and stood up with a grunt. _All right, Marian, you’ve had your moment of melodramatic wallowing. That’s quite enough of that._ If she had learned anything since leaving Lothering, it was that life went on… regardless of the pain it left behind. _I’ve survived fleeing the Blight, watching my brother get slaughtered by an ogre, being betrayed and left for dead in the Deep Roads, having my sister dragged off to spend the rest of her life as a prisoner, finding my mother chopped up and made into an undead rag doll. Oh, and don’t forget being almost crushed to death by an angry Qunari Arishok. So somehow I think I’ll manage to survive Bodahn and Sandal leaving for Orlais._ She allowed herself a tight smile. _And if Fenris decides to leave me as well, I’ll survive that too, I suppose. What’s one brooding elf when an entire city is about to blow up in my face? Even if said brooding elf has an amazing ass, as Isabela never tires of pointing out. But what bloody use is an amazing ass that you’re not allowed to touch anyway?_

That last thought made her laugh out loud. _Maker’s breath, I really am going mad._ With a shake of her head, she picked up _Hard in Hightown_ and put it in her satchel before stalking out the door.

***

Fenris stared out the window from the second floor of his mansion to the streets of Hightown, watching the comings and goings of Kirkwall’s insipid nobility without any real interest until he spotted a familiar red-headed woman in the orange and silver armor of the City-Guard approaching his door. With a sharp intake of breath he watched her enter, heard the front door open and shut below. But he forced himself to stay where he was, waiting impatiently for her to appear in the doorway of what passed for the parlor in his mansion.

“Afternoon, Fenris,” she greeted him. “You’re not busy at the moment, are you?”

He ignored her jibe. “What did you find?” he demanded, his tone harsh and abrupt even to his own ears.

“Why, hello, Aveline. Come in, take a seat. I do appreciate all the trouble you’ve taken on my behalf.” Aveline rolled her eyes as she entered the room with an exaggerated bow.

“Aveline.” Fenris growled. He knew he was being rude, and perhaps later he would regret it, but at the moment his desire for an answer was urgent enough to make everything else seem trivial.

The Guard-Captain eyed him with disapproval, but mercifully she refrained from any more pointless censure. “The woman who claims to be your sister arrived in Kirkwall three days ago on board the _Archon’s Pride_ , a Tevinter vessel.” She spoke brusquely, all business now. “She gave her name as Varania, no family name. The ship’s manifest has her boarding in Minrathous. She was on the ship alone, as far as anyone could tell. At the moment she has a room at The Hanged Man. Both Varric and Isabela have seen her in the common room during the day. She has met no one since her arrival and hasn’t made any attempt to contact anyone other than you.”

Fenris absorbed Aveline’s words hungrily, like a starving man grasping for crumbs. But it wasn’t enough. Hope and fear warred within him, a toxic cocktail of emotions, and he banged his fists on the table in frustration. “ _Fasta vass_!”

“I don’t suppose that’s Tevene for thank you.” Aveline remarked dryly.

“I need to know if it’s a trap!” Fenris snapped back. His fury was misdirected; he was angry at himself. Angry at his own indecision, at the paralyzing fear he felt at the possibility Danarius was lurking somewhere in the shadows after all.

Aveline looked at him for a moment with her pale green eyes, and he could see she was aggravated, but there was sympathy there, too. “I did as you asked, Fenris,” she told him, her tone only mildly exasperated. “The rest is up to you, I’m afraid.”

He watched her go, then punched the table again with another muttered curse. Was it worth risking his freedom, his very life, just to meet a sister he didn’t even remember? Rationally, the answer was “no.” And yet here he was, agonizing over what to do. Even if it wasn’t a trap, even if Varania truly did turn out to be his sister, the thought of going to meet her alone filled him with dread.

 _I have grown weak_ , he thought bitterly to himself. When he’d left Tevinter, he’d imagined he’d live the rest of his life as a solitary wolf, forever hunted, cut off from society for the rest of his days. And now here he was in Kirkwall, afraid to meet a lone woman on his own. He couldn’t help but laugh at himself. He was no wolf; he was a whipped cur, a dog with his tail between his legs.

_What now?_

***

Hawke had just let herself in the door when she almost ran into Aveline. The tall, red-haired Guard-Captain was in full armor, her sword and shield strapped to her back and a look of thunder on her face.

“Aveline!” Hawke greeted her, startled. “Is something wrong?”

“Hawke.” Aveline took a step back and gave her a short nod. “Nothing’s wrong, exactly. Other than Fenris being Fenris. Varric should have called him “Stubborn Arsehole” instead of “Broody.” He’d try the patience of blessed Andraste herself.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Hawke laughed a little, but her curiosity was piqued. “Has our stubborn arsehole done anything in particular?”

Her friend gave her a weighing look, but rather than answer her directly, she shrugged and rolled her eyes. “It’s not my story to tell. But if I were you, I’d make sure to get it out of Stubborn Arsehole today. You can tell him that if he doesn’t tell you, I will. Otherwise he’s probably going to do something stupid that even I won’t be able to shield him from.”

 _Well, that sounds ominous._ Hawke swallowed a sigh and resigned herself to an inevitable confrontation. “Will do, Captain. Thanks for letting me know.”

She found Fenris upstairs, arms crossed and staring out one of the windows with his back to the doorway. Even from across the room, she could sense the agitation in the tense lines of his shoulders, the way his arms were tightly folded across his chest.

“Fenris.” She approached him slowly, stopping in the middle of the room so as to give him some space. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

He didn’t turn to look at her. “I suppose Aveline has already told you everything.”

“Actually, I think you owe her an apology,” Hawke countered, keeping her tone deliberately light. “She hasn’t told me anything, other than her low opinion of your general character.”

She was rewarded with a small huff of reluctant amusement from Fenris but no verbal reply. Hawke waited. She was not normally a patient person, and the effort to keep from demanding an explanation from Fenris was a real one. Had it been anyone else, she probably would have marched up and bullied an answer out of them. Her time in Kirkwall had taught her that patience was mostly a waste of time where most people were concerned. But Fenris was not most people.

“I… made contact with my sister.” He finally admitted, the words heavy and reluctant. “In Tevinter.”

Hawke made herself count slowly to ten before she opened her mouth. _Gently, Marian._ “Varania?” was all she trusted herself to say.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Hadriana was telling the truth. About this, at least. Varania is not a slave. When I finally heard news of her, she was working as a tailor in Minrathous.”

“When was this?” Hawke asked mildly.

“It took me over a year to track her down,” Fenris muttered. “And more time to convince her that I was actually who I said I was.”

He was still facing away from her. Hawke felt herself chewing on her lower lip and stopped herself with a swallowed curse. The thought of Fenris doing something so momentous in secret – for over a year! – hurt her more than she cared to admit. But with an effort she pushed her petty feelings to the side. This wasn’t about her; this was about Fenris finally finding a piece of his past that, Maker willing, wasn’t painful or traumatic. “Go on.”

“I sent her enough coin to book passage on a ship to Kirkwall,” he continued. “And she is here.”

Hawke was speechless. Her extended silence finally prompted Fenris to turn around and look at her with a frown. “Your sister is here?” she repeated faintly. “In Kirkwall?”

“At The Hanged Man, in fact.” He nodded curtly.

She was still processing the news. Amongst the chaos of emotions was a cold thread of fear. Was this finally it? Would this be the reason Fenris left Kirkwall? Connecting with the last family he had? The thought was so overwhelming that she had to turn her face away briefly as she struggled to keep her feelings from showing. _Stop being such a selfish bitch, Marian Hawke_ , she told herself sternly.

As she managed to keep her panic at bay, it occurred to her that Fenris was not exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of reuniting with his sister. “You think it’s a trap,” she said at length, feeling slow and stupid for taking so long to realize what was on his mind.

He made a noise of frustration. “The more it seems that it’s not, the more convinced I become that it is.” His dark green eyes held her gaze, and the pain in them made her heart ache. “I have no right to ask this of you,” he began in a low voice, but she immediately cut him off with an impatient gesture.

“Don’t be an idiot, Fenris. Stubborn arsehole doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He raised his brows at that, but she pushed on. “You’re not going to meet her alone.”

Fenris grimaced. “I don’t want to scare her off, if she is who she says she is.”

Hawke shook her head, although a shameful part of her thought it might be convenient if this Varania was scared off before Fenris had a chance to speak to her. “Do you trust me, Fenris?”

He looked somewhat startled at the question, but she was looking at him with a deadly serious gaze, and he met it without flinching. “You know I do, Hawke.”

“Then leave it to me. We will not scare off your sister, but we won’t walk in blind, either.” Her mind was already preoccupied with planning a strategy. If they had to do this, then there was no point in half-assing it. “I’ll meet you in front of The Hanged Man tomorrow at noon. Come prepared for anything.” She found herself flashing him a mad grin, surprising a half-smile out of him in response.

“Once again, I am in your debt, Hawke.” Fenris inclined his head gravely, but Hawke could see that the tense lines of his shoulders had softened somewhat since they’d first started speaking, as if an invisible burden had been lifted. That alone was enough to strengthen her resolve.

“Friends are never in debt to each other, Fenris,” she chided him gently.

As she left his mansion, she tried to steel herself for all possibilities. Yes, it was possible that Danarius was going to jump out of the shadows at the last minute and make them all shit their pants, but it was also possible that Varania was telling the truth, and that she would try to convince Fenris to… to what? Come back with her to Tevinter? Start a family business with her stitching underpants for nobles? Hawke wasn’t even sure which outcome she was hoping for. At least Danarius would be an enemy she could kill. But there was no point in worrying about it now. Hawke turned her steps towards the Viscount’s Keep and started planning in earnest.

***

The next day, Hawke stood in front of The Hanged Man and tried not to look suspicious. It wasn’t too hard, all things considered, since most people at The Hanged Man tended to look a bit shifty at the best of times. _How fortunate that we’ve all established ourselves as regulars of this salubrious establishment_. Despite her status as Champion, few people actually recognized her as such in Lowtown. Only the nobility had actually witnessed the duel with the Arishok, and as the tale grew in the telling, most people expected someone the Champion to be someone more… imposing. Not a petite young woman with a mischievous grin.

She reviewed the plan in her head. Isabela would be sitting at the bar, drinking cheap ale and insulting anyone bold enough to make a pass at her – nothing unusual there. Aveline would be sitting in a corner, in plainclothes and a hooded cloak, keeping to herself. Varric would be in his quarters, and Merrill with him. She had instructed both of them to stay out of the way as much as possible, and even if a fight were to break out, Merrill was not to actively take part. The Dalish mage had plenty of passive spells at her disposal, and Hawke did not want to risk her using magic out in the open in broad daylight. Varric could use Bianca from his doorway if he needed to, which would provide sufficient cover lest things get ugly. They had all agreed to listen for her signal – if she spoke the phrase _bugger off_ , that meant a battle was inevitable.

She had left Sebastian and Anders out of her plans. Sebastian always stuck out like a sore thumb in Lowtown, and Anders was too unstable nowadays to be relied upon. Not to mention that Hawke wasn’t entirely sure he’d help where Fenris was concerned. The animosity between the two had only worsened with the passing years. Better not to take the risk.

Varric and Isabela had both told Hawke that there had been no notable newcomers staying in The Hanged Man other than Varania. That didn’t mean much though. Danarius was a powerful magister; Maker only knew what sorts of tricks and illusions he had up his sleeves. She hoped, for Fenris’s sake, that this meant Varania had truly come alone, with a sincere desire to reconnect with her brother. But she wasn’t going to take any chances.

“Hawke.” Fenris had appeared at her elbow, outwardly as stoic as ever, though the feverish light in his viridian eyes betrayed his internal turmoil. He glanced around briefly. “Is it just us then?”

He seemed unconcerned at the thought, which Hawke found alarming; clearly he was desperate to believe that everything was going to end well today. She forced herself to flash a casual grin. “Some of the others are inside. But they’ll be minding their own business unless they have a reason not to.”

Fenris nodded absently as he turned towards the door. “Let’s go.”

“After you,” Hawke gestured, steeling herself as best she could. It was hard to prepare yourself when you didn’t quite know what you were preparing yourself for. _Just expect everything to go to shit either way. Can’t go wrong there._

***

Fenris briefly shut his eyes as they walked inside to help his sight adjust more quickly – The Hanged Man was always hazy and dim even in the middle of the day. The familiar miasma of cheap ale and stale pipe smoke filled his nostrils, a surreal contrast to the trepidation pulsing in his veins. He opened his eyes and took in the room as swiftly as he could.

She stood out at once, an unfamiliar elven woman with ruddy hair and brilliant green eyes that almost glowed. Her face was very pale, with full lips and a strong jawline that looked oddly un-elven. Fenris stared at her intently, not knowing what he was looking for, feeling a growing sense of helpless frustration and anger. She was a complete stranger to him. How was he to judge whether or not she was telling him the truth?

“Varania,” he managed to say, the name sounding awkward and wrong on his tongue. He became aware that she was staring back at him, as wide-eyed as if she’d seen a ghost.

“You came,” she whispered in reply, her voice low and husky. She looked truly shaken, as if she hadn’t quite believed he would show up after all. Was that a good sign?

Suddenly images flickered in his mind, fragmented and blurred at the edges. A younger version of Varania, hair cut into a blunt bob around her face. They were in a yard of hanging laundry, and she was chasing him between the sheets. He could smell the faint scent of expensive soap, feel the rough pavement on the bare soles of his feet, the smooth linens brushing against his face. He could hear her voice merrily calling his name, muffled by the layers of fabric between them. A name his mind had completely erased from his memory… until now.

“I remember you,” he said, his voice hoarse and unsure. The world around them had disappeared, and all he could see was the woman’s – his sister’s! – face, both strange and familiar at once, her eyes fixed on him, her features as still as a statue’s. “You used to call me…”

“Leto.” She finished his sentence for him. “Leto. That is your name.” The shock on her face was slowly fading, but it was being replaced by something else he couldn’t quite read. She was shaking her head slowly, and he took a step towards her, wanting her to know it was going to be all right, that he remembered her now…

“Fenris.” Hawke’s voice startled him out of his trance – he’d briefly forgotten she was there. He turned to her questioningly, and the way she was looking at him, her amber eyes sharp and wary, filled him all at once with cold clarity, as if she’d plunged one of her ice spells into his very heart.

Suddenly he was aware of the air around them crackling with magic, strong enough to make even the drunken patrons of The Hanged Man sit up and take note with hazy alarm. He looked at Varania again, and whatever she saw in his face made her flinch away, unable to meet his eyes any longer. The crimson flush of shame suffusing her cheeks made his breath catch in his throat, and the fury and pain that twisted in his chest was so overwhelming he could hardly breathe.

“My little Fenris.” The cultured Tevene accent froze the blood in his veins with its haunting familiarity. “So predictable, as always.”

The Tevinter magister was approaching them as if he’d stepped out of thin air. He was as Fenris remembered – tall and bearded, his aging features deceptively avuncular; all except his eyes, cold and relentless as grey marble. Fenris was vaguely aware of the magister’s companions suddenly filling the room, starting to surround him and Hawke, but he was unable to take his eyes off his former master. If Danarius had chosen that moment to strike, Fenris would have died then and there. He was utterly frozen where he stood, his insides churning with hatred, with terror, with the gut-wrenching agony of betrayal. “You,” he finally grated out between clenched teeth, glaring at the bitch cowering in her seat. “You brought him here.”

“I had no choice,” she retorted, still refusing to meet his eyes.

“Now, now, don’t blame your sister.” Danarius spoke in gently chiding tones, as if scolding a wayward child. “She was only doing her duty as any good citizen should. After all, a man has every right to reclaim a runaway slave.” He eyed Hawke with genuine interest. “And this is your new mistress, then. The fabled Champion of Kirkwall. Charmed to _finally_ make your acquaintance, my dear.”

“You really have only yourself to blame for the delay, Danarius.” Hawke spoke pleasantly enough, but her hands hung loosely at her sides – a sure sign she was readying herself to draw her daggers at a moment’s notice. “It’s not like _we’ve_ been in hiding for the past six years. Surely a fabled Tevinter magister isn’t scared of a lowly backwater mercenary?”

“I was hoping our visit would be more of a surprise,” Danarius noted, a hint of disappointment in his otherwise bland words. “I will admit to going to quite some lengths to conceal our trip to this Maker-forsake corner of Thedas. However did you know?” He looked her up and down with a measuring gaze, and Fenris briefly imagined himself sticking his thumbs into his former master’s eyeballs. “I see the rumors were true. You are what they call an apostate.”

Hawke snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t need any magic to tell me what your plans were. Evil is boringly predictable.”

“Evil?” Danarius blinked, then laughed. “Tell me, Champion, if a thief broke into your house and stole a precious work of art, would you not feel entitled to chase him and claim what is rightfully yours? How would that be evil?”

Fenris could listen in silence no longer. “I never asked for these!” he snarled, ignoring the pain under his skin as his markings glowed in response to his fever-pitch emotions. “But I will not let you kill me to take them back, Danarius!”

Danarius arched an eyebrow in apparent disbelief. “Actually, my little wolf, you _did_ ask for them.” Fenris clenched his fists reflexively against this bald-faced lie. It had to be a lie. “Although… of course you wouldn’t remember. But I assure you they were not given to you against your will. It was an honor many fought for.” He eyed Fenris with something like pride. “But you were the one I found worthy. And they do suit you quite well, one must admit.”

Hawke put a hand out, not quite touching Fenris, and he understood she was asking him to refrain from attacking, for the moment at least. The rage that roared through him at the idea that he had _asked_ to be marked and tormented in this way was so all-encompassing he could barely see straight. But with a supreme effort, he stilled himself.

“Fenris is a free man; he belongs to no one but himself.” Hawke spoke evenly, seemingly unconcerned by the circle of mages and soldiers now surrounding them. She raised her voice a notch, her words ringing through the now almost empty tavern room with calm confidence. “So, Danarius, you can _bugger off_ while I’m still in the mood to ask nicely and save us all some time.”

“Such vulgarity does you no credit, Champion. But do I detect a note of jealousy?” Danarius laughed, a warm, rich sound of merriment that made Fenris’s skin crawl with revulsion. “I don’t blame you, Champion. My Fenris is certainly _skilled_ , is he not?” Fenris felt his stomach clench with a sudden spasm of nausea, and he swallowed hard against the urge to vomit, unable to even look in Hawke’s direction for fear of what he’d see in her face. “Don’t let his demeanor fool you, though – he used to be quite fond of me, you know.” Danarius shook his head and sighed theatrically. “Freedom has confused him a little, I think. But he will be back to his normal self again, I’m sure, once we take him back home.”

The thought of going back to Tevinter sent a sharp chill of alarm up Fenris’s spine, and before he realized what he was doing he’d unsheathed his sword. He felt the lyrium markings throbbing inside his skin, flaring with white-hot rage. This time, Hawke made no move to dissuade him. In the blink of an eye, her daggers were in her hands. Danarius was already encased in some sort of magical barrier, quickly moving away from the center of the room as his lackeys swarmed closer, a smug, triumphant smile curving his mouth.

A faint whistle in the air, and one of the mages was on the ground before she’d even had time to open her mouth, two bolts embedded in her back. The smirk on Danarius’s face froze in place.

Then things seemed to happen all at once. Fenris quickly focused the energy seething in his markings and blasted it towards the enemy in front of him, knocking a handful of them to the ground where they lay momentarily stunned, but before he could make another move Isabela was in their midst, her daggers seeking out the gaps in their heavy armor, piercing vulnerable flesh with deadly efficiency. And then a familiar mist of green energy was creeping along the floorboards, wrapping heavy tendrils around two of the enemy mages, causing them to scream in startled pain. “In the doorway!” someone shrieked, drawing everyone’s attention to where Fenris presumed Varric and Merrill were sheltering, but even as two Tevene assassins darted forward, Aveline was suddenly planted firmly in their way, easily knocking their daggers aside with her broad shield.

At Fenris’s side, Hawke reached upwards with one hand, making a fist and yanking it down sharply as she cast her spell, calling down an invisible force that swept half the enemy off their feet, leaving them sprawled and disoriented. But the one warrior closest to Hawke had managed to resist. He swung his blade towards her with a shout, but Fenris was already moving, catching the blade on his own. Sparks flew as metal ground against metal. And then the chaos of battle erupted in earnest.

From the beginning, Fenris had but one goal – to rip whatever lump of flesh served as an excuse for a heart right out of Danarius’s chest and crush it to pieces in his hands. But even in the midst of his battle rage, he remembered that he was not fighting this battle alone. That had been the mistake he’d made all those years ago, when they’d been ambushed by Hadriana’s people. It had nearly gotten his companions killed. It had nearly gotten Hawke killed. He wasn’t going to make that same mistake again.

It had taken him a few moments to realize the full extent of their party; Hawke, Isabela, and Aveline out in the open, and Varric and Merrill fighting from behind cover. They’d gained a few precious moments of surprise at the outset, but Danarius’s people had the superior numbers, and the mages hadn’t been hesitant to summon all manner of creatures in their defense, including a handful of shambling corpses from their own dead companions.

Aveline had positioned herself between the enemy and the doorway Varric and Merrill were using as cover. Any lesser warrior might have been overwhelmed by the number of their foes, but the Guard-Captain of Kirkwall wielded her sword and shield with a grim determination, clearly unwilling to entertain even the possibility of defeat. She absorbed the attacks of her enemies stoically, hardly even flinching, and repaid them with interest when they were foolish enough to come within the reach of her blade and her shield. Behind her, Varric calmly and methodically picked off their foes one by one, Bianca never failing to find her targets, while Merrill simply stood there and allowed her magic to fill the room, a silent, ominous presence that was no less deadly for its passivity.

Fenris did his best to draw the hostility of their enemies to himself, knowing that Danarius would have ordered everyone to take him alive. His foes gathered in a tight knot around him, intent on overwhelming him by brute force. But they overlooked Isabella and Hawke, and it was the last mistake they would ever make. Isabela picked them off and lured them to her one by one, distracting them with her cocky smile and elaborate feints as her daggers flashed and sought out all their myriad weaknesses in rapid succession. Hawke was less flamboyant but no less deadly; she mostly held back until Fenris had staggered an opponent with a particularly successful blow, then before they could recover she would swiftly deal a series of slashes that usually culminated in a decisive strike to somewhere vital, spattering the air with crimson blood. Their movements complemented each other, one flowing into the next, almost like a grim, deadly dance, and even in the white-hot heat of pitched battle he thought she never looked more beautiful than when she was wielding her blades.

Danarius had clearly expected to drag Fenris off with little resistance – he had not counted on Hawke predicting an ambush and stationing reinforcements the way she had. He spent most of the battle skulking behind his underlings, casting his spells from afar. One particularly nasty lightning strike knocked Isabela flat on her back, and Hawke and Fenris had to move quickly to keep her from being overrun by a handful of walking corpses. But the tide of battle had already turned by that stage. Hawke sliced through the neck of the last undead and turned to Fenris, panting with the effort. “Go, Fenris. We’ll be fine.” She gave him her mad grin, the one he knew and loved so well. “Cut him open and feed him his own entrails.”

“Ugh, Hawke, that is disgusting,” Isabela protested, heaving herself to her feet.

Fenris barely heard her; he was already turning towards Danarius, blind and deaf to everything else around him. He’d imagined this moment countless times in his head, and every time his heartbeat had quickened, his hands had trembled with the anticipation, the rage that filled him at the thought of facing his former master. But now that the reality was in front of him, he felt himself filled with an icy calm. Time seemed to slow as he gripped his blade and deliberately made his way forward one step at a time. Danarius’s face was contorted in rage and fear as he hurled his blood magic towards Fenris, no longer caring if he killed him. But Fenris had long since mastered the art of using his lyrium markings to neutralize hostile magic and render it harmless. The spells melted and fizzled into nothingness before they even touched his skin. The irony was not lost on him. He hoped it was not lost on Danarius either.

“How fitting that your obsession with blood magic will be the cause of your own destruction,” Fenris sneered as he drew near. The magister tried to scramble away, but Fenris was too quick. He lunged forward and plunged his hand into Danarius’s chest, eliciting a scream of shock and pain. With a jerk he lifted him off the floor, his fingers digging deeper into his vitals.

The old man writhed in the air, making unintelligible noises, his hands opening and closing in vague pleading gestures, and Fenris gazed upon him with detached disbelief. This was the man, the mighty Tevinter magister who had caused so much fear and suffering? He was old and pathetic, pissing himself in terror as he faced his mortality like any other man. Fenris could feel Danarius’s heart pumping rapidly against his fingers, his former master’s life literally in his hand. He could feel his own heartbeat in his ears, hypnotically measured and slow.

“You are _no longer_ my master,” he spat out, his throat raw with emotion. And then he tightened his grasp harder, harder, until he felt Danarius’s heart burst wetly between his fingers. The old man convulsed with a final shriek, falling to the floor in a heap as Fenris yanked his hand out of his chest, filling the air with blood and viscera. And then he stood, staring down silently at the man who had controlled so much of his destiny until now, a crumpled, pitiful heap on the floor of the tavern. He waited for his heart to feel joy, or relief, or some sense of victory, but instead he felt blank, as if his mind hadn’t quite decided on the appropriate emotion for this occasion.

Was it because there was still a loose end to tie up?

_Varania._

***

Hawke watched Aveline gut the last of their enemy and grimaced at the numerous corpses strewn around them. Even for them, this was a high body count. Luckily all of the regular patrons had hightailed it out of there once they realized what was going on. Corff and Norah were nowhere to be seen either. She briefly wondered if they’d gone to call the City Guard. Not that it really mattered when the Guard Captain herself was here with them, carefully wiping the blood off her sword on the cloak of a corpse that was still warm.

They all silently watched as Fenris ripped the heart out of his former master and crushed it in his fist, letting the corpse drop in an undignified heap to the floor. His back was to them, making it impossible for Hawke to see his face. Would this death give him the peace of mind he so desperately sought? She knew it was probably a stupid thing to hope for. If her years as a mercenary had taught her anything, it was that death rarely brought anyone peace, except for the one that was dead. But at least Danarius’s death would be a weight off their minds. _No more looking over our shoulders for Tevinter spies, at any rate. And having his heart ripped out was the least of what that monster deserved._

“Ten points for style, at least,” Varric remarked under his breath. “I don’t think this particular chapter is going to need much embellishment.”

“It seems unnecessarily messy,” Merrill murmured with mild disapproval. “It’s all fine if you’re not the one who has to clean it up, I suppose.”

“Hawke.” Aveline spoke sharply, her head jerking in Fenris’s direction. He was stalking over to where Varania was cowering in a corner, her hands outstretched in a pitiful attempt to keep him at bay. Hawke moved quickly, reaching his side just as he stopped in front of his sister.

“I had no choice, Leto,” Varania pleaded in a tremulous voice.

“Stop calling me that!” he snapped. His eyes were sharp and furious, but there was something else there, too – the jagged pain of an undeserved betrayal, by the family he had so desperately sought after all these years. For that, Hawke could have cheerfully sliced the bitch’s throat open herself.

“He offered to make me his apprentice. I could have become a magister!” she babbled. “You have no idea what life has been like for me since Mother died and you left. I had no choice!”

Fenris went very still. “You. You are a mage?”

 _Just bloody perfect._ Hawke had to make an effort not to curse out loud at this turn of events. Varania was still rambling on, clearly thinking she could still persuade her brother to show her mercy. “Magic was my only way out of the gutter. I couldn’t even be sure it was truly you. I thought if I just went along with what he wanted it would turn out to be a false rumor anyhow. But he promised me an apprenticeship either way. What other choice did I have?”

Fenris was shaking his head, his mouth tightening into a grim line. “You keep saying that. There is always a choice.” He looked at her, his eyes bright with anguish. “I would have given you everything.”

Varania turned to Hawke in desperation as Fenris advanced another step, blood still dripping from his right gauntlet. “Please, stop him! Don’t let him do this!”

“Good riddance, I say” Isabela muttered under her breath, but Hawke ignored her as she gently put a hand on Fenris’s shoulder. “Fenris. Stop.”

He stood absolutely still, though he didn’t step away from his sister either. “Why?” he demanded, turning to look at Hawke. The pain in his eyes struck her like a physical blow, but she met his gaze as calmly as she could. “Why should I let this traitorous bitch draw another breath? Are you going to spout platitudes about family at me, Hawke?”

“This bitch is not your family.” Hawke said firmly. Fenris seemed nonplussed by her answer, confusion blunting the edge of his cold rage. “And what she did was despicable, but she did it to survive. _Danarius_ was the true enemy, and now he is dead. What pleasure will it bring you to kill an unarmed woman in cold blood?”

“She is a mage,” he spat. Hawke arched a brow at him, and to his credit he glanced away, slightly chagrined.

“She is not even an apprentice, Fenris.” Hawke softened her voice. “If you truly wish to kill her, I can’t stop you. But I doubt it’ll make you feel any better. Just let her go.” She spared a withering look at the woman, who was staring wide-eyed at Hawke with a pathetic look of hope on her face. “The sooner she is out of our lives, the better.”

Fenris was silent for a long moment, and Hawke could feel their companions collectively holding their breaths. Then he stepped to one side, not even deigning to look at her. “Get out,” he said flatly.

She scrambled to her feet and dashed for the door. But on its threshold, she paused, and turned around, a sudden defiant light in her green eyes, so much like her brother’s. “He wasn’t lying, you know. You did fight for them. Those markings. You _competed_ for them.”

Fenris looked at her, stricken. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You did it for Mother and me. You were granted a boon in exchange for those markings, and you asked for our freedom.” Surprisingly, her lip curled in disgust. “Freedom was no boon. What life do freed slaves have in Tevinter? Clearly you got the better end of the bargain.” And with that, she was gone. Maker only knew where. _To the Void itself, if there’s any justice._

“Well, time for a drink, I think,” Isabela said brightly, hands on her hips. Aveline shot her a death glare, which she gamely ignored as she stepped over several corpses to get to the bar.

Fenris shoulders slumped, as if suddenly drained of all his energy. “ _Fenhedis_ ,” he whispered.

“Fenris…” Hawke stood near him, unsure of how to comfort him. Her heart ached at the empty, lost look in his eyes, but at the same time she felt angry as well. Angry that he’d been pinning so much of his hopes on this random woman from Tevinter, a woman he could barely remember, little better than a stranger.

“I thought reuniting with my sister would finally bring me some sense of belonging,” he muttered, half to himself. “And now magic has robbed me of even that last hope.” A bleak half-smile twisted one corner of his mouth. “I am… alone.”

Hawke had to resist the urge to grab the elf by his shoulders and violently shake him until his teeth rattled in his head. “Fenris, for the love of Andraste. If you were truly alone, you’d be dead right now. Or in handcuffs being dragged back to Tevinter.” He looked up sharply at her words, and she made a gesture to include the rest of their companions. “You don’t need to go on some fruitless search for a bloody sense of belonging. You already have a place you belong to. And it’s _here._ With us. In this Maker-forsaken cesspit we call Kirkwall. Like it or not, we are your people now. Your _friends_.” She jabbed a finger at him for emphasis. “And no amount of angsty brooding is going to change that fact.”

“Friends?” Fenris repeated, as if he’d never heard the word before. He furrowed his brow and looked at the others, the skepticism strong on his face.

“You may be a stubborn brooding arsehole, Fenris, but you do have friends.” Aveline offered in her usual blunt way. “Although Maker only knows why we stick with you.”

“Yes, we’re not all that bad, are we?” Merrill added.

Hawke stepped closer to Fenris and dared to take his hand, entwining her fingers in his. He looked at her, startled, but she tightened her grip and met his gaze, willing him to see how much he meant to her, this handsome, deadly elf with his brilliant viridian eyes and fragile soul.

“You are _not_ alone, Fenris, so don’t you dare say you are,” she told him, her voice low and fierce.

He looked at her, and for a moment his features softened into something vulnerable before hardening back into an unreadable mask. Then he gently disentangled his fingers from hers. “I need to get out of here,” he murmured, and with that he slipped out the main entrance and was gone before any of them had time to react.

“He really has brooding down to a fine art, our Fenris,” Varric remarked with cautious amusement. Hawke favored him with a wry look but decided not to reply. All of a sudden she felt extremely weary, like she could curl up in bed and sleep for a week.

Isabela had found an open bottle of whiskey and was passing it around. Even Aveline took a swig without making any pointed remarks. Hawke let the rough, bitter liquid wash down her tongue and throat, filling her stomach with prickly heat that was a welcome distraction from the turmoil of emotions in her chest.

“My guards will be here soon, I think.” Aveline noted. “The Champion of Kirkwall can stay and give a full account of what happened here. The rest of you should probably make yourselves scarce.”

“What, and let Hawke take _all_ the credit for this?” Isabela gestured to the dead bodies indignantly.

“All in a day’s work for the Champion of Kirkwall.” Hawke smirked, though her heart wasn’t really in it.

“What are _you_ worried about? It’s not like she’s challenging your position as sluttiest pirate in Kirkwall.” Aveline’s insult was more out of habit than anything else. “Just make yourself useful and walk Merrill back to the alienage.”

“I think I’ll tag along, then.” Varric patted Hawke on the arm. “Don’t worry too much about Broody, Hawke. He just needs some time to brood. It’s what he does.”

“I have no doubt,” Hawke agreed with a weary sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this chapter a bit - usually I try to avoid writing about scenes that are already fleshed out in the game, but that wasn't easy with this one. But one thing that has always bothered me about this quest is the way Danarius just saunters downstairs from the second floor of The Hanged Man for an ambush. Like, wouldn't Hawke have done a little more checking to make sure Danarius wasn't lurking around somewhere? Was he hiding in Varania's suitcase or what?


	17. Questioning Beliefs (Once More)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris comes to an important realization.

“So, what was the fabled King of Ferelden like?”

They were gathered at The Hanged Man, a little over a week since their battle with Danarius had stained the floor red with blood. The tavern had recovered surprisingly quickly. Hawke had paid out of her own pocket to see the bodies removed and the floors cleaned posthaste, and the regular patrons weren’t going to let a little thing like a blood bath keep them from their cheap ale. The incident had even conferred bragging rights on those who had been lucky enough to witness it… or claimed to have witnessed it, at any rate. Hawke was pretty certain the tavern had been empty by the time they’d finished the battle, but the way people were talking about it, the common room had been packed to the rafters with spectators. She had overheard one man telling Norah that the Champion of Kirkwall had ripped the Tevinter magister’s heart out and eaten it whole.

Hawke and her friends were sitting in their usual corner, though not everyone was present. Sebastian rarely joined them anyway; such a den of iniquity was beneath a former Chantry brother’s dignity (though Hawke suspected it was more likely an addict’s fear of sliding back into old habits). Anders had also started to join them less and less, preferring instead to hole up in his clinic, poring over smuggled magical texts, or meet with other apostates in the secret corners of Darktown. At this point, Hawke wasn’t even sure she wanted to know exactly what he was up to.

As for Fenris, he’d been absent from any gathering since they’d defeated Danarius. She desperately wanted to go and see him but wasn’t entirely sure he would want to see her. And if she was being honest with herself, she was afraid he would tell her he’d finally decided to leave Kirkwall, now that he was truly free. She wasn’t sure she could handle him telling her that. And so she dealt with her fear the old-fashioned way – by simply avoiding him altogether. _What a silly bint you’re being, Marian Hawke._ With an effort she pulled herself out of her thoughts and tried to focus on the conversation in front of her.

“He was… younger than I expected,” Aveline was saying thoughtfully. She and Sebastian had been the only ones with Hawke when she’d gone to meet King Alistair. “Younger and more light-hearted. You’d think, after all he’s seen, he’d be more serious about life.”

“I’ve met him too, you know.” Isabela interjected. “When he and the other Warden, what’s her name, were running around Ferelden. I ran into them in Denerim.”

Varric shot her a skeptical look. “You’ve met Elyssa Cousland?”

“Oh right, that’s her name.” Isabela snapped her fingers. “Yes, we met at The Pearl, in Denerim. I even taught her a few tricks, you know. She was pretty green back then.”

Varric chuckled. “I’ve told some tall tales, but yours really takes the cake, Rivaini. Are you trying to tell us that you taught Elyssa Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden, how to fight?”

Isabela tossed her hair indignantly. “It’s true, I swear. Go ahead and ask her about me.”

The dwarf snorted. “Yeah, the next time the King and Queen of Ferelden invite me over for tea, I’ll be sure to do that.” He turned to Hawke, ignoring Isabela’s sputtering protests. “Well? What did the King of Ferelden want to see you for?”

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Varric. I’m the bloody Champion of Kirkwall. Who wouldn’t want to see me?” Hawke took a swig of her lukewarm ale and made a face. “It wasn’t anything interesting. General doom and gloom; what else is new? Apparently, he was here to enlist Meredith’s help in standing against an impending Orlesian threat, but she raked him over the coals for allowing the Ferelden mages their freedom. The fact that he is King of Ferelden didn’t seem to faze her one bit.”

“He’s let the mages go free?” Merrill exclaimed in delight, her eyes widening.

“Not exactly. He has no control over the Circle itself, but he’s made it so being an apostate is no longer a crime.” Aveline explained.

Varric whistled. “I can see why that wouldn’t make him Meredith’s favorite person.”

“Sebastian kept hinting that he should be supporting Hawke as the new viscount in Kirkwall,” Aveline added in a lowered voice.

“What? Hawke, Viscount of Kirkwall?” Isabela’s laughter was loud and merry. “Why not? You can’t be any worse than the last one.”

Hawke smiled sweetly in response. “If I do become Viscount, the first thing I’m going to do is outlaw busty pirate wenches who think themselves wittier than they actually are.”

“Oh, put me in handcuffs, Viscount.” Isabela thrust out her wrists, using her arms to push her breasts together as she pouted lasciviously in Hawke’s direction. “I’ve been a very naughty girl.”

Merrill gave her a confused look. “Why would you want Hawke to put you in handcuffs?”

“Never mind her, Daisy, she’s talking shit.” Varric waved Isabela away impatiently. “It’s not the worst idea in the world, Hawke. Your being Viscount would solve a lot of problems.”

Hawke barked a humorless laugh and took a deep drink of her ale. “You must be joking, Varric. I solve problems by stabbing them full of holes, as you are well aware. I would make a terrible Viscount.”

Aveline regarded her gravely. “Don’t be fatuous, Hawke. Kirkwall needs a leader now more than ever. Meredith is going to drive us all over the edge of a cliff, if she keeps going on as she is.”

“It’s a moot point, anyway.” Hawke replied defensively. “It would be impossible to become Viscount without the support of the Templars.”

“That’s certainly true.” Varric admitted. “Unless you were able to somehow convince our friend Curly to stage a coup.”

Hawke rolled her eyes and sighed. “For the record, I’ve already had this conversation with Sebastian. I’m not going to try and seduce the Knight-Captain of the Templars on the off-chance that he _might_ betray everything he stands for to support an apostate that has been a pain in his backside ever since she came to Kirkwall.” She emptied her mug and slammed it down on the table for emphasis. “So you can stop wasting your breath.”

“He might be more willing to support you if you showed him your tits first,” Isabela suggested.

“Shut up, whore,” Aveline responded reflexively.

Isabela made an obscene gesture in Aveline’s general direction, which the Guard-Captain chose to ignore with dignity. “Where is Fenris tonight?” Merrill asked brightly, attempting to change the subject.

“Brooding at home, no doubt.” Varric shrugged. “Aveline and I went to go see him the other day. You’d think he’d be a bit cheerier after ripping out the heart of his former slave master, but he’s determined to be miserable, I guess.”

“You really should go talk to him, Hawke.” Aveline added. “It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with his freedom now that he truly has it.”

“Freedom can be a big burden.” Varric remarked with unusual solemnity.

Aveline was unimpressed with Varric’s profound observations. “He can’t keep living in that mansion, for one thing. I’ve done what I can to deflect attention, but apparently someone has asked the seneschal if it’s for sale, and now the seneschal is wondering why it’s been allowed to stand empty and ownerless for so long. Fenris needs to start thinking about the future.”

Hawke chewed her lower lip and furrowed her brow, staring down into her empty mug. _You can’t avoid him forever. Just get it over with, Marian. Stop being a coward._ “You’re right, Aveline. I’ll go see him soon.”

“Maybe you can shag some sense into him,” Isabela offered with her usual wicked grin.

 “Is that even possible?” Merrill looked sincerely curious.

Aveline eyed Isabela with disdain. “If you feel sensible after a shag, you aren’t doing it right,” she snarked.

Hawke was startled into a genuine laugh, while Varric chuckled. “She has you there, Rivaini!”

Isabela put her hands on her hips, undaunted. “Well, and how would _you_ know, big girl? You’ve only shagged two men in your entire life. You’re practically a virgin.”

The Guard-Captain of Kirkwall smiled at the pirate with the smugness of a cat licking cream off its whiskers. “Quality wins over quantity every time, whore.”

***

Hawke needed at least a temporary distraction from her own woes, so she convinced Varric to join her in hunting down whatever band of illegal mercenaries were currently terrorizing Hightown at night. It seemed a thankless task; Hawke had rooted out so many such gangs around Kirkwall in the past six years she’d lost count. But she wanted to stab something, and illegal mercenaries seemed a good a target as any. No one would miss them.

While she wanted a fight, she wasn’t quite so insane as to think she and Varric could take on an entire band of lowlifes head-on without getting themselves killed, so the two of them chose a series of twisty alleyways behind the market square as their battleground. Hawke planned to lead them a chase while Varric sniped them from the rooftop.

“You know, Hawke, most people have hobbies that don’t involve killing people.” Varric noted as he carefully polished Bianca’s handle. They had chosen the top of a fancy café right on the market square to keep watch on the streets below. It had been easy enough to pick the lock and let themselves in. Hawke had even been so bold as to nick a bottle of mead from the shelves. _It’s the least this damn city owes me._

She laughed quietly. “Says the man whose only meaningful relationship is with a crossbow.”

“Don’t listen to her, my beauty, she’s just jealous.” He patted Bianca tenderly, but Hawke could sense him looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Speaking of meaningful relationships…”

“Maker, Varric, don’t start.” Hawke rolled her eyes as she took another swig of the mead. “I invited you out so we could have a good time slitting throats, not so we could sit around like two old ladies gossiping about my nonexistent love life.”

“Yeah, but we’re going to have to wait a while before we can slit any throats.” Varric countered. “So we might as well gossip.” Despite his flippant tone, his dark eyes were full of affectionate concern. “How are things between you and our resident brooding elf? Have you talked to him at all since we fought the Tevene?”

Hawke shook her head. The mead was surprisingly strong, and she felt ever-so-slightly fuzzy-headed, her cheeks pleasantly warm in the cool evening air. “I doubt he wants to talk to me.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “I’m a mage. Every time he looks at me, he’s reminded of everything that went wrong in his life.”

Varric grunted. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Hawke. I doubt that’s what he’s thinking.”

She laughed humorlessly, idly watching the shadows deepen as the sunlight slowly faded from the sky. “To be fair, he’s never denied he has feelings for me. That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? One moment he wants me, the next he can’t stand to even look at me. And for some reason I can’t get enough of it. It all sounds like a plot from one of those awful novels Isabela is always reading. Except there’s far more shagging happening in those stories.” She chuckled at her own joke, amused despite herself.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke, you’re the bloody Champion of Kirkwall.” Varric seemed caught between sympathy and exasperation. “You could have your pick of men, but for some reason you’ve spent the last six years committed to a brooding elf in some sort of old-fashioned lady-and-knight relationship that is both weirdly romantic and just plain _sad_.”

“I’m not committed to him,” Hawke said defensively.

Varric snorted. “Of course you’re not. He just wears your colors on his wrist as a fashion statement. And in the meantime, you’ve had a long string of torrid flings with all the eligible bachelors in Kirkwall – oh, wait a minute. No, you haven’t. You’ve been living like a Chantry sister.”

“Andraste’s ass, Varric, what is your bloody point?”

Varric sighed. “I don’t have a point, Hawke. I’m just worried about you. Anyone with eyes in their head can see you and Broody are crazy about each other, but… are you going to live the rest of your life tied to a man who you can’t really be with? I know you kept him close because of the whole Danarius thing, but that bastard is dead. Broody needs to figure out what he’s going to do with the rest of his life.”

Hawke leaned back against the ledge and stared up at the late evening sky, noting the faint glow of the first star against the deepening blue. She felt a weariness deep in her bones, despite the fact they hadn’t even started the night yet. “Maybe I should just become Viscountess and marry Sebastian after all.”

“I know you’re expecting me to disagree, but honestly you’ve had worse ideas.”

"You've already said that." Hawke turned to look over the ledge, down at the streets below. The Crimson Crusaders, which is what the gang called themselves (frankly, Hawke thought it sounded like a bad euphemism for that time of the month; she was guessing it was an all-male company) usually prowled the streets at night, preying on unlucky passers-by. Unlike the usual petty criminals, these thugs seemed to delight in violence as well as theft. Hawke felt not the slightest bit of remorse for their plan to kill as many of them as they could in the hopes of flushing out their leader.

She noticed a knot of figures loitering in the shadows, their heads peering around corners as if waiting for someone to walk by. “I see our friends are out and about now.”

“Great way to change the topic, Hawke.” Varric peered over the edge and noted where she was pointing. “That’s fine. Bianca was getting bored anyway.”

Hawke flashed him her usual grin. “Your old-lady gossip will just have to wait.”

She made her way downstairs, pausing on the first floor to pull her cloak around her and don her hood. She had chosen one of her nicer cloaks for the occasion, a lush dark green velvet, with the intention of tricking the thugs into mistaking her for a silly noblewoman wandering the streets on her own after dark. Orana would be horrified if she knew.

Her thoughts wandered back to the conversation she’d just had with Varric as she ventured out into the streets. Maybe Varric was right; maybe now was the time for her to cut ties with Fenris and push him out of her life. As long as he stayed in Kirkwall, she knew she wouldn’t have the strength of will to move on from their tangled relationship. Encouraging him to take advantage of his newfound freedom and leave this awful city was really the right thing to do. Even though the prospect left her throat painfully tight and her heart pulsing with a dull ache. _Fuck. Why is the right choice always the shittiest?_

She was suddenly aware of a heavy step behind her, and she shoved all other thoughts out of her mind. Distraction would kill her now. Hawke deliberately kept her pace steady: the uncertain shuffling of a woman not quite sure where she was headed. She counted six men stalking her steps, and her lips curled in a smirk as she turned into the alleyway. The men quickened their steps, eager to catch their unsuspecting prey, thinking they had her cornered. She paused in front of the dead end, feigning confusion as the men slowly loomed up behind her.

“Lost, missy?” one of them rasped, approaching her with what he probably meant as an air of menace. “We’ll help you get home. All it’ll cost you is a few gold coins.”

She kept her head down under her hood, waiting for him to come closer. “Please,” she said in a thin, shaky voice. “I don’t have any money on me.”

“That’s all right, sweetheart,” another one sneered. “You can pay us another way, we don’t mind.” His companions all guffawed, and Hawke wondered if it would be too much work to castrate them all before she killed them. _Probably would. Lucky for them._

The first man lunged forward and caught fistfuls of her cloak in his hands, clearly meaning to rip it off her. But she was ready for him. She’d already unfastened her cloak and it slipped off her with little effort. The man had yanked at it with all his strength and was thrown off balance by the unexpected lack of resistance, stumbling backwards comically as he yelled in surprise. With her left hand, Hawke hurled a flask into the midst of the other men; from her right hand leapt a small bolt of energy that hit her attacker squarely in his chest. It was only enough to knock the wind out of him, but that was all Hawke needed. As dark smoke poured into the alleyway, Hawke swiftly drew her daggers and pounced. It was almost too easy; she slit his throat while he was still staring at her with a hilariously startled look on his face.

A few muffled thuds told her that Varric and Bianca had joined the fray from above. She darted through the now-dispersing smoke cloud, deliberately catching the attention of the few men who were still standing around and coughing their lungs out as she brushed past them. “Catch that bitch!” one of them yelled, and she favored them with an insolent grin before darting down the narrow street, the enemy hot on her heels. Fenris and inevitable heartbreak could wait. The night was already looking up.

***

Fenris was trying to distract himself by reading the book Hawke had left behind: _Hard in Hightown_ , written by none other than Varric himself. It was a silly, convoluted story, heavy on the witty lines and light on reality, but despite himself he felt compelled to turn each page. _I owe the dwarf an apology_ , he reflected. _He isn’t so terrible a storyteller as one might think._

“Varric has ensnared another reader, I see.” The sudden presence of Hawke in his doorway almost made him jump. The book must have been more engrossing than he’d realized. “Hawke. Come in.”

She entered the room but made no move to approach him, instead making her way to the windows and perching herself on one of the sills. The late afternoon sun bathed her in a warm, hazy glow, turning her into a dark silhouette framed by the drawn curtains and making it difficult to see her expression. “Hello, Fenris. It’s been a while.”

Her voice was careful and measured, betraying no particular emotion. Fenris cleared his throat. “Yes. I’m sorry. I probably should have called on you after…” he trailed off, unsure how to describe what had happened in any succinct way.

“That’s all right.” Hawke shrugged. “I understand if you wanted to be alone for a while. But Aveline and Varric told me they’d been to see you. They expressed some… concern.”

“Ah.” Fenris had a general idea of what they might have told Hawke. He hadn’t exactly been hospitable when the two of them had dropped by. “Yes. They expressed some frustration that I wasn’t out and about making the most of my newfound freedom. I believe Varric must have used the word “brooding” at least five different times.”

Hawke laughed softly. “Can you really blame him? You do have a tendency, you know.”

Fenris grunted in something between annoyance and reluctant amusement. “They tried to explain it to me so simply, as if I were a slightly dim-witted child. My former master is dead, therefore I am free. Which apparently means I should be out drinking myself into oblivion and frolicking with whores. Either that or endeavoring to make myself into a proper, upstanding member of society.”

“Varric didn’t really suggest you frolic with whores, did he?”

Hawke’s jest was a light-hearted one, but there was a subtle undertone of displeasure – jealousy? – that surprised Fenris into a half-smile, though he turned away to make sure Hawke didn’t see it. “I think he was just using a figure of speech.”

It was Hawke’s turn to grunt, though there was no amusement in it. “Well, and what do you want to do, Fenris, now that you’re free?”

He wished he could see her face. The way the light streamed in behind her made her look almost otherworldly, like an avatar of Andraste from a religious painting with her features in shadow. “Everyone keeps telling me that I’m free, but the only thing I feel is empty.” Fenris sighed in frustration. “Call me broody if you wish. For as long as I can remember, Danarius ruled my life. As my master, certainly, but even after I fled, the fear of being caught by him constrained my every move. And now that fear is gone, I feel…” He struggled to find the right words. “I feel as if… I were a ship that’s suddenly lost the wind, and is now just… drifting with no direction.”

The awkward comparison made him grimace, but then Hawke slid off her perch on the windowsill and walked towards him, stepping from light into shadow. He could now finally see her face, the one face he felt he knew more intimately than his own. Her lovely amber eyes, tilted slightly upwards at the corners, met his without hesitation, and the warmth he saw in them filled him with a sudden rush of emotion, easing some of the bleakness that had been eating at him ever since that day he’d killed Danarius and almost killed his sister.

“All that means is now there’s nothing holding you back, Fenris,” she said softly. “You can choose your own wind, now.” Despite her attempt at a neutral tone, he heard the slightest break in her voice at the end of her sentence.

“Hawke.” Before he realized what he was doing, he had stepped closer to her and nudged her chin upwards with a gentle hand, causing tears to spill from the corners of her eyes. “Why are you crying?”

She quickly stepped back and wiped her eyes with a forced laugh. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to think of, you know.”

Fenris refused to be distracted. “Hawke.”

The Champion of Kirkwall sniffled in a rather undignified fashion, wiping her nose on the back of her hand like a child. “You’re going to leave Kirkwall, aren’t you?”

He stared at her. “Leave Kirkwall?” he repeated, confused.

“It’s the obvious choice, isn’t it?” Hawke half-turned away, staring out the window and avoiding his incredulous gaze. “What reason do you have to stay here, now that Danarius is dead? No one is chasing you anymore, Fenris. You could go anywhere? To Denerim, or even bloody Antiva or Orlais if you liked. You’d be mad to stay in this shithole.”

“I made a promise to you,” he began, unsure how to respond to her sudden outburst, but was startled when Hawke whirled around and pointed a finger at him, her eyes narrowed with the beginnings of anger.

“Don’t give me that _bullshit_ , Fenris. I can’t take it anymore. This isn’t some damn fairytale where you’re my knight in shining armor and you pledge your undying loyalty to me for all eternity. We both know that whatever debt you owed me was long repaid. And the only thing you promised me was…” Hawke swallowed, but when she spoke again her voice was as hard as iron. “You promised me to stay by my side for as long as you were in Kirkwall. You don’t owe me any more than that.”

Fenris felt his initial surprise fading, and he felt oddly calm in the face of her growing fury. “Do you wish me to leave?”

Hawke laughed wildly. “What a question, Fenris! I’ve bared my heart to you so many times it would make even Isabela blush. And I know… I know why you can’t bear to be with me. I know.” Her voice had dropped into a whisper, and the pain in her words pierced him to the core. “But I also know you, Fenris, and I know your bloody sense of honor will have you tied to me and Kirkwall even if this damn city crumbles into the sea.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if steeling herself. “You told me once before, Fenris. ‘Tell me to go and I shall.’ Well, I’m telling you now, Fenris. _Go._ ” She glared at him, her eyes burning golden outrage even as more tears shimmered at the edges. “Leave Kirkwall. I’m releasing you from every promise, every vow, every sense of obligation you’ve ever had to me. Don’t squander your newfound freedom here in this cesspit. And then maybe I can finally forget about us… about _you_ … and get on with the rest of my life.”

Her face was set in grim lines, and Fenris was reminded of when he’d confronted her just after the Deep Roads expedition, when she’d found out Bethany had been taken to the Gallows and was contemplating a suicide mission to get her out. She had been half-crazed with desperation then; now, she just seemed bleakly resolute. But Hawke’s sudden demand that he leave Kirkwall had abruptly put things into perspective for him with a startling but welcome clarity. All his life, he’d felt torn between so many conflicting feelings: his fear of magic, his desire for freedom, his feelings for Hawke, his hatred of Danarius, his longing to belong somewhere. And even now, he felt only uncertainty when he tried to imagine what the future held for him. But there was at least _one_ thing he did know, now, beyond any doubt.

“No.”

Hawke blinked, but she didn’t look impressed. If anything, she looked even wearier than she had before. “Fenris…”

“Hawke.” He interrupted her, the feeling of calm decisiveness growing stronger with each moment. “Listen to me.” He had no talent with words, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to make Hawke understand, but he had to try. “I have been a coward… and a fool. I was so afraid of my past that I let it taint whatever chance I had for a future. Being with you awakened a part of me I thought was long dead. A part of me that I _tried_ to keep dead, in order to survive. And feeling what I felt for you… it meant I had to feel what I felt about _everything._ ” She was standing completely still, staring at him with an almost frightening intensity. He kept his gaze on hers and blundered on.

“I was too cowardly to face it all. I just wanted it all to disappear. So I tried to lock it all away again. I thought it would be enough simply to be at your side as your companion, without having to risk opening all those old wounds. But if I could go back and do it all over again, I would have chosen differently. I wouldn’t have pushed you away.” He looked at her intently, willing her to believe that what he was saying was the truth. “It’s true that killing Danarius hasn’t brought me the peace I had hoped for. But it has given me something else – it has granted me clarity. And I know, now, that this freedom I have, this new future I’ve been granted, will mean nothing unless I can face it at your side.”

Fenris clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling exhausted as he spilled his emotions in a way he’d never dared to before, not to anyone. He ached to reach out to Hawke, who looked so uncharacteristically pale he was afraid she was going to faint. He wanted nothing more to hold her tightly to his chest and bury his face in her hair. But she stood frozen, almost as if she were posed to flee, and so he waited for her to speak.

“I can’t do this again, Fenris,” she finally said, in a broken voice that was little above a whisper. “The last time you convinced me you wanted to be with me despite everything, and then you left me in the same night with my heart in pieces. It’s a dance that’s getting old, I’m afraid.” There was a hint of bleak amusement in her voice, even as she looked at him with anguish in her eyes. “Nothing has changed, you know. I’m still a mage, and you still have your past. That will never change. What suddenly makes you think we have a future together?”

Fenris hesitated, then reached out and gently took her hand. He put it over his heart, holding it there with his own, savoring the warmth of her slender, calloused fingers against his chest. Her eyes widened, though she made no move to step away.

“I won’t lie to you, Hawke. Nothing can erase my past or my distrust of magic, or change what you are. But I am done running, Hawke.” He squeezed her hand for emphasis, his voice rough with emotion. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I am asking for it even so. And I swear to you that I am done running. My place is by your side. Whatever the future may bring.”

As he spoke, he saw the distrust in Hawke’s face gradually ebb away, replaced by a light in her eyes that tightened his throat with remorse. How much pain had he caused her all these years? What he’d said was nothing but the stark truth – he _didn’t_ deserve her forgiveness, yet there it was, shining out of her face as clear as the warm light pouring in through the window behind her. The tears were flowing freely down her cheeks as if a dam had burst, and he finally pulled her close and held her as tightly as he could, breathing in her closeness like a man parched with thirst taking his first drink of cool water. The formidable Champion of Kirkwall felt small and fragile in the circle of his arms as she wept quietly into his chest. It had been years since they’d last embraced so closely, but the warm weight of her body against his own was so comfortingly familiar it could have been but yesterday.

“Fenris.” She finally spoke, her voice tremulous and uncertain. “This is… this is your last chance, you stubborn, broody bastard.” She half-laughed, half-sobbed against him, and her typical way of injecting humor into the gravest of situations made him smile a little despite himself. “If you leave me alone ever again, I swear I’ll…”

His arms tightened around her as he cut her off. “You will never be alone again. I am yours, Marian Hawke, and I remain at your side.”

She pulled back slightly to look up at him, her tear-streaked face still afraid to believe. He bent his head and kissed her softly, tasting the salt of her tears, savoring the tenderness of her lips against his own. She closed her eyes and he could feel the tension finally draining from her body, relaxing into his embrace and as she returned his kiss with a thirst that mirrored his own.

He knew that there was still a long road ahead, that his sleep would still be peppered with feverish nightmares of his past, and that his bone-deep mistrust of magic would not make it an easy thing to love a mage, even if that mage was Hawke. But none of it mattered. For the first time in his life, he felt a sense of belonging. He had found his home, and it wasn’t a place. It was a beautiful, fierce, slightly insane golden-eyed woman with an inappropriate sense of humor and a talent for getting into trouble. Home was Marian Hawke.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst with a happy ending! Though I still have two more chapters planned.


	18. A New Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Hawke explore what it means to be together.

Fenris jerked upright in a sweat, the dreams already fading but the emotions still sharp and jagged in his throat. For a heartbeat his mind was blinded with panic, unable to understand why he’d awoke in a bed not his own. Then realization washed over him in a sudden rush. He was in Hawke’s bed, and the first hints of light around the edges of the curtains told him dawn was approaching.

He pressed his hands against his eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths. The most frustrating part about the dreams was how they melted away so quickly, leaving nothing but confusion in their wake. They weren’t always nightmares, exactly, but they were always intense and left him feeling lost and disoriented at the best of times. The worst ones left him feeling terrified without knowing why. And always, there was the instinct to run.

But he was done running. He had sworn it.

Breathing deeply, he turned to look at Hawke. It never failed to astonish him how deeply she could sleep. The fabled Champion of Kirkwall could probably have stayed blissfully oblivious through anything short of the Templars holding a full military parade through her bedroom. She had kicked off the blankets and tangled them around her legs, and now she was curled up on her side, little more than a silhouette in the darkness.

As the first rays of sunlight started stealing in through the cracks in the curtains, he lay back down on his pillows and distracted himself by watching Hawke sleep. She rarely bothered to actually wear anything more than her smallclothes to bed. His eyes traced the curves of her slender legs and round bottom sticking out from under the sheets in a most undignified yet undeniably tempting fashion. It was easy to forget how slight she actually was – with her bright amber eyes and insolent grin, she always managed to project an aura of confidence that made her physical stature irrelevant. But here, sleeping almost naked beside him, it seemed impossible that this woman could be the Champion of Kirkwall. And yet, even now, one wouldn’t mistake her as fragile. The sinuous lines of her relaxed muscles were graceful and cat-like, hinting at speed rather than strength. And then she shifted in her sleep, rolling onto her back, legs splayed wantonly open in a way that made the corner of his mouth curl up with a mix of amusement and desire.

These leisurely mornings were still a novelty for Fenris – before, any time he’d had with Hawke had been rushed and tinged with desperation and uncertainty. Now, they could spend hours in each other’s company, and not everything had to be about … shagging, as Hawke liked to put it. Once he’d sworn to Hawke he would stay at her side, she’d wasted little time in banding together with Aveline and bullying him out of his mansion. Aveline had already been intent on booting him out, but when she learned he’d reconciled with Hawke, any last shred of sympathy she had for him vanished. And so, before he’d quite realized what was happening, he found himself established in a spare room in Hawke’s estate.

At first he’d been mostly apprehensive. He _had_ said he’d wanted to be with Hawke, and he’d meant it, but moving into her house seemed somewhat… abrupt. He had a vague idea that this was not exactly normal in a relationship, to live together so quickly, though he also had to admit to himself he had very little idea what a normal relationship was supposed to look like. Aveline’s courtship of her husband had been beyond bewildering, and the only other relationship he knew of was between Varric and his ridiculous crossbow. But Hawke made it clear that she didn’t expect them to be joined at the hip, even if they were living together. It wasn’t too long before they’d settled into a comfortable routine. Most mornings they’d breakfast together in the dining room, then Hawke would often spend the rest of the day out and about, tending to whatever business she had, whether it was hunting down rogue apostates, paying Bethany a visit, checking in on that accursed Anders in Darktown, or taking any odd job that struck her fancy. Sometimes, Fenris would accompany her. Other times, he would have his own business to attend to, occasionally helping Aveline crack down on slavery rings or other criminal activities down at the Docks, or otherwise doing the odd mercenary assignment for coin. And then he wouldn’t see Hawke until dinner time. He would come home to find her in the library, curled up with a book and some tea, scribbling notes at her desk, or sometimes even learning how to play the lute from Orana, the Tevinter elf she’d rescued so long ago. The way her face lit up upon seeing him never failed to spark an answering warmth from deep within.

The most surprising thing to him was how much he enjoyed the quiet domesticity of it all. Of course, he took immense pleasure in the physical intimacy, the fact that there was no longer any reason for him not to tangle his fingers in Hawke’s hair and kiss her whenever he pleased, until she moaned and wrapped herself around him, as shameless as any of those slutty heroines in Isabella’s books. But there was also a different pleasure, in coming back to a place that was more than just a shelter from the elements and from the City Guard. It was warm and safe and a blessed oasis from the chaos of Kirkwall. Living here, Fenris felt he could finally let down his guard for the first time in his life.

It was a strange sensation, at times almost frightening. Sometimes he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all too good to be true, that at any moment it would all be snatched away from him and he would be told such happiness was never meant for a lowly former slave who came from nothing. The urge to run always lurked under those thoughts, as insidious as a serpent in the grass. But his oath to Hawke was his shield, and he clung to it doggedly when such doubt reared its ugly head, waiting for it to slink back into the shadows. Would he ever wake one day to find it gone for good?

Fenris shook his head impatiently to clear it of his brooding, then reached out to trail the tips of his fingers along Hawke’s inner thigh, marveling at how smooth her skin was there. She twitched a little, but her eyes remained closed. He traced slow circles, his hand moving upwards in a lazy, meandering path until he reached the edges of her underclothes that didn’t cover much of anything at all. He shifted closer to her, touching her through the flimsy fabric to stroke the spot he knew was most sensitive, at the same time bending his head to kiss the tips of her breasts, the nipples clearly visible through her thin shirt. He took one into his mouth and sucked gently until he heard her moan softly, felt her thighs starting to move under his hand.

He looked up to see her half-awake, gazing at him through heavily-lidded eyes, her lips slightly parted, her breath already starting to quicken. He was already as hard as a rock, but he was willing to wait. He slid his fingers into her and found her hot and wet with desire, and she whimpered as he moved his hand against her with firm, sure strokes. “Fenris,” she finally whispered. “Please.”

He knew what she was asking. “Not yet,’ he told her, his voice low and rough in his throat as he pulled her underclothes off and tossed them into a corner. He moved until he was between her legs, his hands against her thighs as he kneeled to taste her. She moaned, writhing on the sheets as he moved his tongue against the sensitive flesh right at the top of her cleft. He held her thighs down firmly; she was strong, but he was stronger, and the feeling of her straining against him as she quivered against his mouth fanned his desire into white-hot flames. But he forced himself to wait until he felt her spasm, heard her cry of relief as her climax rippled through her in waves, leaving her breathless and panting against her pillows. Only then did he shrug himself out of his own trousers, raising himself so he was propped above her on his elbows, their eyes almost level. She stared at him, her amber eyes wide and awake, small beads of sweat dotting her brow, leaving her dark hair curling in damp tendrils around her face.

“Good morning to you, too,” she said with a faint grin, still somewhat breathless Her hands were already wrapped around his cock, urging him inside her. He had meant to give her a few more moments to savor her own pleasure, but the feel of her tightness and heat clenched around him was too much to resist. With a groan he thrust himself inside her until he could go no deeper, pausing to recover some measure of equilibrium lest he lose control too quickly. Hawke had her legs wrapped around him, her back arched and her eyes wide and unfocused, lost in their moment of shared passion.  He rocked against her, and she moved with him, her small gasps stoking his desire even further, and he could tell that when she shut her eyes she was building towards another climax. With the discipline of a well-trained warrior he kept his own at bay, moving inside her in a slow, persistent rhythm until she pleaded. “Fenris, _please._ ”

He kissed her, a deep and hungry kiss with no subtlety about it, and her tongue met his hungrily, her teeth nipping his lower lip with impatient frustration. “Marian,” he rasped in her ear, his voice thick with need. Then he let himself go, thrusting hard and fast in a blind frenzy until she gasped beneath him and he spent himself inside her with an intensity that left him feeling limp and drained and sated, slumped heavily against the sheets at her side.

Hawke lay beside him, still panting, her lips quirked in a satisfied smile. “Well, that was nice. I meant to get up early for some training today, but this is much more fun.” She touched his face gently with one finger, the light in her eyes soft and tender, her cheeks flushed with the afterglow of their intimacy.

He answered her smile with a half-one of his own. “It’s still early, Hawke. And you’ve already worked up a sweat.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “You really are no fun. Fortunately for both of us, I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that and ask Orana if there’s any bacon for breakfast instead.”

***

Hawke nibbled her last piece of toast and watched as Fenris finished his tea, his plate clean of crumbs. He wasn’t much of a breakfast person; in general he seemed only to eat when he was hungry, as if eating was little more than an inconvenient necessity of life. It was a trivial fact about him but one she’d never known until they’d started living together. Even now, the sight of him sitting across from her where Mother used to sit often struck her with its novelty. It wasn’t just that their relationship had taken a completely new turn. It was the merging of her two lives – her outside life, where she ran around Kirkwall, daggers in hand, ready to stab whatever got in her way, and her home life, where she curled up in armchairs, occasionally gorged herself on sandwiches and biscuits, and allowed herself to be somewhat pampered by Orana and Bodahn. Fenris had always firmly a part of the outside world, but now here he was, sitting at her dining room table. It was a strange, heady feeling to suddenly have him in both worlds; to have someone fighting at your back but also be home for supper. Not that she was complaining.

“Do you need me today, Hawke?” Fenris asked, bringing her out of her musings. She bit her lip to keep a silly grin from spreading across her face at his question, delivered in his usual deadpan tone. The grin faded on its own as she contemplated what she had planned that day and how Fenris was going to most likely react. She quickly brushed the crumbs from her lips – it was difficult to have serious conversations when butter and toast were still stuck to her face.

“I’m taking Merrill to Sundermount,” she said cautiously.

Fenris frowned. “Is this about that accursed mirror of hers? We should have shattered it long ago.”

Hawke laughed a little, although she knew Fenris was being deadly serious. “Yes, it is about the mirror. She hasn’t given up on it, even though I never gave her the Arulin’Holm. And now she wants to have a chat with the demon that put her on this whole path in the first place.”

“And your plan is to support her in this madness?” Fenris’s eyes were narrowed in disbelief. “Please tell me you are joking.”

“You know I’ve never supported her efforts to fix the eluvian. None of us have.” Hawke bristled. “But she plans to confront the demon on Sundermount regardless of what we think. I can’t let her do it alone.”

“Why not?” Fenris retorted. “Why should she be entitled to risk the lives of others in her foolish pursuits? And what if she decides she needs more blood for her blood magic in order to summon the demon?”

Hawke fixed him with a stern look, exasperated by his determination to imagine the absolute worst. “I know you’ve never liked her, but you’ve known her for over half a decade, now. Look me in the eye, Fenris, and tell me that you honestly think Merrill is capable of hurting any of us for the sake of her blood magic.”

He exhaled sharply. “I will concede that it is unlikely – at the moment. But can you swear that if the demon offered her heart’s greatest desire, she wouldn’t turn on all of us in an instant?”

“I’m not going to judge her based on a _maybe_.” Hawke shook her head. She knew that Fenris was currently wrestling with his belief that all mages were power-hungry and ruthless, though he couldn’t outright say it without directly insulting the mage sitting right across from him at the breakfast table. _The mage he shagged silly not two hours ago_ , she thought with an inward smirk.

“Very well,” he finally conceded through gritted teeth. “Let us give her the benefit of the doubt. The question still remains – why are you risking your own life to aid her in this madness?”

“For the last time, Fenris,” Hawke said evenly, keeping a firm hold of her temper, “I don’t mean to encourage her in consorting with demons. You _know_ I don’t approve of that sort of magic. But she’s still my friend, and I don’t mean to turn my back on her either. She’s risked her own life for me more times than I can count, even when she hasn’t approved of my choices. The least I can do is accompany her to Sundermount and keep her from hurting herself or anyone unfortunately enough to be caught in the middle.”

Fenris still looked full of disapproval, but before he could voice any more protests, she leaned forward and pointed a finger at him. They were arguing in circles, and it was a waste of time. “I didn’t say you had to come along, you know. If you don’t want to, I’m fine with that. But nothing you say is going to change _my_ mind, so don’t waste your breath.”

Whatever he saw in her face seemed to be enough to convince him to comply. He closed his mouth for a moment, clearly thinking uncomplimentary thoughts about Merrill and possibly even Hawke herself, but finally he let out a curse and threw his head back to stare at the ceiling in a gesture of defeat. “At least tell me you aren’t bringing your pet abomination as well.”

“Anders?” Hawke raised an eyebrow at the idea. “No. He’s… hard to get a hold of nowadays. I was going to ask Varric and Aveline to come along.”

“So you’d already assumed I wouldn’t accompany you.” Fenris observed flatly.

“Well, the last time we got involved with her mad quest, you called her a monster to her face.” Hawke snapped, exasperated. “I didn’t think you were inclined to help her out a second time.”

Fenris did not seem at all regretful upon being reminded of this past cruelty of his, but he did lower his eyebrows in thought. At length, he said begrudgingly, “I suppose I owe Merrill a debt for helping us defeat Danarius. So be it, then.”

“So kind of you to join,” Hawke drawled with as much sarcasm she could muster, though she was secretly relieved. Although Merrill had reassured her the demon was securely bound, one never knew where demons were concerned. She trusted all of her companions to have her back, but having Fenris at her side was always a comfort. Even if he was a stubborn arsehole at times.

***

They hiked up Sundermount for what seemed like hours, and so far the undertaking to meet a demon had turned out to be more tedious than anything else. Fenris liked to think he was a warrior in his prime, more skilled than most, but a dull burn was building in his thighs as the paths grew steeper and steeper. Merrill had made some inane comment about enjoying the scenery, but Fenris had decided long ago he was definitely not made for frolicking about in the wilderness, as the Dalish seemed to relish doing. He preferred the city: stench, seediness, squalor, and all.

They had started off by meeting with the Dalish Keeper (over the protests of Merrill) who had been greatly disapproving but disappointingly vague with her admonishments. But that was typical of the Dalish, always couching their words in so much unnecessary mystery to obscure their ignorance. And so they continued up the narrow mountain paths no more the wiser, mostly unhindered except for the odd giant spider or cluster of walking undead. Merrill led the way, her usually placid face set in grimly determined lines. To her credit, she had made it clear that she expected them to strike her down if the demon somehow ended up possessing her, and her words had rung with sincerity. It was cold comfort, though. Fenris knew how fond Hawke was of Merrill. He was resolved that if things really “went to shit,” as Varric was so fond of saying, he would be the one to kill the blood mage. Despite his decidedly mixed feelings towards Merrill, killing her would bring him no joy, but at least it wouldn’t traumatize him the way it would Hawke.

Fenris was bringing up the rear a few paces behind the rest, mostly to guard their backs but also to avoid having to talk to Merrill. But now Varric was keeping pace next to him, clearly keen on striking up a conversation.

“So, looks like a life of domestic bliss suits you.”

Fenris shot him a neutral look. “What makes you so sure, Varric? For all you know, Hawke and I spend all our time sparring in the parlor.”

“Knowing the two of you, I wouldn’t be surprised if that _was_ your idea of domestic bliss,” the dwarf snorted. “But you look slightly less broody than usual. I think I might have even seen you smiling at Hawke at one point. At this rate I’ll have to give you a new nickname.”

“How rude of me to inconvenience you so,” Fenris replied dryly. He heard a skittering of too many legs in the bushes and went for his sword. Varric had already whipped out his crossbow and fired a shot towards the sound. There was a hideous squeal and a burst of movement towards them, but Fenris was already in the air. He swung downwards and his blade sliced through the creature, splitting it open with an unpleasant splattering of sticky fluid. The two women ahead of them merely glanced back to make sure the problem had been dealt with before continued onwards.

Fenris took a moment to wipe his blade on the grass before the acid in the spider’s blood ate through his steel. He fell back into step alongside Varric, who was keeping his crossbow out as a precaution, his finger on the trigger.

“Are you hoping for a good chapter for your book today?” Fenris inquired after a pause. The dwarf’s stories were certainly ridiculous, but there were worse ways to pass the time.

“Do you mean the chapter where the merry band of misfits end up having to kill one of their own because she gets possessed by a demon?” Varric retorted, his tone heavily sarcastic. “It sounds pretty dramatically satisfying on paper, I’ll give you that. I’d rather not have to write it, though.”

“I told Hawke she should have smashed that damn mirror ages ago,” Fenris muttered.

“Maybe that would have been the sensible thing to do.” Varric was surprisingly willing to agree. “But let’s face it, if any of us were sensible people, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Here on Sundermount?”

“Here in Kirkwall, sitting on a powder keg about to explode any day now, with a slightly crazy apostate as our fearless leader.” Varric grinned. “I mean that with affection, of course.”

“Of course,” Fenris replied absently, looking ahead to where Hawke and Merrill were marching along. He had to admit, they were an odd company – not just the four of them today, but the whole lot of them. Had it already been over six years since they’d all known each other? Hawke continuously insisted they were his friends, and while he wasn’t quite sure he’d go that far (especially with Anders), there was certainly something undeniable that tied them all together. Their individual bonds to Hawke, of course: their slightly unhinged leader who had somehow charmed them all into following her with fierce loyalty despite their frequent differences of opinion. But over the years they’d also formed bonds of varying kinds amongst themselves, despite – or perhaps because of – all the turmoil they’d experienced. Six years ago, the thought that he would feel even the slightest bit comfortable with a Dalish blood mage would have been completely ludicrous. Not that he’d ever trust Merrill completely, but he had to admit, he often forgot to be suspicious of her when they were all playing Wicked Grace in The Hanged Man or fighting cutthroats in Darktown. His bond with Hawke had led him into a spiderweb of tangled relationships with all these other misfits. Was that necessarily a bad thing?

“I take it back.” Next to him, Varric chuckled. “You are still the master of brooding, elf. You have it down to an art form. Even in the middle of this creepy-ass mountain, surrounded by giant spiders, you just fall into it so naturally, like breathing. Consider me impressed.”

Fenris was serene in the face of his sarcasm. “I am a man of many talents, Varric.”

“Oh yeah?” The dwarf seemed unimpressed. “Don’t suppose one of your many talents would be ‘convincing naïve Dalish elves to stay away from nug-humping demons.’”

Fenris grunted. “No, but I do have a small talent for slaughtering demons that are up to no good. Which would be all of them, come to think of it. Will that suffice?”

Varric snorted, starting to sound slightly breathless as they continued their climb. “At this rate, our legs are going to fall off before we get anywhere near it. That’ll make for an interesting fight.”

***

Hours later, as they confronted the pride demon Audacity in all its twisted, gruesome reality, Hawke could practically feel the _I told you so_ radiating from Fenris as he stepped forward to meet the enemy head on, although his face held nothing but the tense readiness for battle. Merrill was still shaking her head in panicked denial, backing away in horror from the massive creature that had once been her Keeper. Varric had kept a cool head and leapt back to a safer spot where he could fire his bolts from some cover. Hawke already had her daggers in hand, but they would need everyone to focus if they wereto have a fighting chance.

“Merrill! We need you!” she barked, circling around to where she could attack the demon from its flank while it was focusing on Fenris.

To her credit, the elf snapped to her senses right away, immediately casting an aura that surrounded her with misty green vines that whipped themselves around the demon’s ankles. She followed it up by summoning a fist of stone and flinging it straight at the demon, where it shattered into fragments against its skull.

Audacity roared in fury and whirled to target the source, but Fenris lunged forward, blade outstretched and aimed towards its knee. It dodged just in time, turning what would have been a deep stab into a glancing cut, but then Bianca’s bolts thudded in impossibly quick succession, one-two-three-four-five, straight into the demon’s chest. Hawke saw her chance and leapt forward just as the demon arched around its new wounds, using its broad, scaly back as a foothold to leap onto its shoulders, her daggers inflicting several deep slashes into the vulnerable flesh at the back of its neck. The demon roared again and swiped with its deadly claws, but Hawke was already backflipping away, landing gracefully next to Fenris without so much as a stumble. He shot her a mildly disapproving look to let her know what he thought of her antics, but the demon was now lurching back, dark blood flowing from its multiple wounds, visibly weakened.

Suddenly it reached up to rip the crossbow bolts out of its chest with a sickening sound of metal rending skin, leaving ugly, gaping holes in their wake. But then the demon’s dark blood seemed to congeal in mid-air, clotting into a lumpy mass that sealed its torn flesh. It whipped its horned head around to focus on Hawke, staring at her with its many eyes, and she froze, feeling the cold touch of fear deep in her bones. Its inhuman voice echoed throughout the cave, resonating in her skull like the clanging of a terrible bell.

“ _Hawke,_ ” it said, and hearing her name coming from that awful mouth filled her with dread. “ _How many glib words have dribbled from your lips, all testament to your cleverness?_ ” The worst thing was the _knowing_ in its voice, as if it had seen straight through her to pierce the fault lines of her very soul. Something dark and fleshy darted between its jaws, like a reptile licking its chops, and she thought she was going to be sick. “ _Every one has fed me…_ ”

Without warning, the image of Leandra in her arms, a broken, undead rag doll with the head of her mother but cold, strange hands touching Hawke’s face flashed across her mind. _Mother._ Hawke felt unable to breathe under the weight of the memory, icy fingers of doubt and fear clutching at her throat. Had it been her own pride, somehow, that had led to her mother’s terrible fate? Had she been too wrapped up in her own glory, in building her own reputation as the most feared mercenary in Kirkwall that she’d been blind to the dangers lurking closer to home?

Dimly she was aware that Audacity was about to cast some spell, the air practically sizzling with the amount of magical energy involved, making everyone’s hair stand on end. Varric was peppering the demon with rapid-fire bolts, while Merrill was flinging energy from her staff in an attempt to stop it from completing its magic. And then Fenris swung his greatsword with a shout, narrowly avoiding being stomped into a pulp by the demon’s enormous feet as he aimed his blade at its vulnerable joints. The demon was roaring in frustration, trying to concentrate on its spell while at the same time bent on crushing Fenris any way it could. It made a wild swing for Fenris, who was the only one within range, and while he avoided the full brunt of the blow the force was still great enough to slam him against the rock wall with a sickening thud. But the next moment he was back on his feet, sword in hand, closing the distance between him and the demon without a second thought.

 _Pull your shit together, Marian Hawke! You’re going to get everyone killed!_ With a supreme effort, she shook off the hypnotizing paralysis that had sunk its claws into her mind, shoving away the self-loathing and uncertainty with a furious scream. Her mother’s death was something she’d never stop blaming herself for, but Leandra would never had forgiven her if Hawke had used that as an excuse to fail her companions. To fail herself.

Just then, Fenris managed to land a blow behind the demon’s knee, causing it to stagger off-balance. Hawke reacted without thought; she summoned electricity from thin air into her hands, aiming it with deadly precision at the same limb. The demon shrieked and fell to the ground with a thunderous crash, glowing with a strange light, and then suddenly its hulking mass shifted and shrank until the form of the Keeper lay before them instead.

“You’ve defeated it, _da’len_ ,” the Keeper whispered as she struggled to her feet, reaching out to Merrill with joy shining out of her wrinkled face.

But even from a distance, Hawke knew something was wrong. Fenris and Varric were both tense, weapons still at hand, ready to strike. But Hawke gestured for them to hold back. Merrill was standing before the Keeper, tears streaming down her face as she looked at the woman who had been a mother to her for most of her life. Hawke clenched her hands around her daggers, silent and watchful, hoping that Merrill would have the strength to do the right thing.

“Let us go to the clan and tell them the good news,” the thing wearing the Keeper’s face tried wheedling to the former First of the Sabrae clan, eyes wet with hope. Hawke saw the hope mirrored briefly in Merrill’s own eyes, but in the next moment she had her belt knife in hand, desperately resolute.

“ _Ir abelas_ , Keeper,” she whispered, stabbing the demon under the ribs.

The Keeper fell to the ground, mouth open in almost comical surprise, A flash of light exploded from her body, and blood spurted violently from her wound, staining Merrill’s face with red. Then she fell to the ground, heavy and lifeless, her eyes half-closed and staring at nothing. It was finally over.

Merrill fell to her knees, keening with grief, the dagger falling out of her hand with a clatter. She bend over the Keeper’s corpse, her tears mingling with the blood on her cheeks. “What have you done?” she cried, and Hawke wasn’t sure if she was talking to the Keeper or herself.

Varric and Fenris drew near, and together they stood silently as Merrill wept over her mentor, babbling through her tears about how this was all a dream, a terrible dream from which she would wake up any moment now. Hawke suddenly felt a surge of impotent anger rush through her veins as she watched Merrill grieve. Hadn’t they _told_ her, time and again, that her pursuit of forbidden knowledge would end in tears? Hadn’t their experience with blood magic taught Merrill _anything?_

 “If you hadn’t been so obsessed with that bloody mirror, she would still be alive.”

She regretted the harsh words as soon as they left her mouth. Varric and even Fenris were looking at her, startled. Merrill simply shook her head in denial.

 “If there was a price, _I_ should have paid it,” the elf insisted, her voice raw and broken. Her words felt like a dagger piercing Hawke’s chest, leaving her unable to speak for a moment with the intensity of her emotions in her throat. The demon’s attempts to paralyze her with self-doubt still lingered in her mind, forcing her to remember the bottomless darkness that had enveloped her upon Leandra’s death. The unshakeable feeling that her mother had paid a terrible price for the life of chaos and violence her daughter led.

Hawke knelt next to her friend and put a hesitant hand on her shoulder. “Merrill.” She made her words gentle. “She loved you.”

Merrill collapsed into a sobbing heap against Hawke, and Hawke held her close, stroking her hair silently as Varric stood mute with silent sympathy and Fenris watched them with a carefully neutral expression. She wondered if he was remembering a similar time, when he had held her as she let herself fall to pieces in his arms. _That was not the same_ , she could almost hear him insist, but for her it was. Merrill had failed someone she loved. Hawke knew that pain all too well. The least she could was let Merrill have a moment to indulge her grief before she had to face up to the consequences of her failure. She would carry that pain for the rest of her life. _As I do. As I do._

At length, Merrill quieted, and she wiped her face on her sleeve, heedless of the blood smeared all over her cheeks. Her red-rimmed eyes were calm and resigned. “Let’s go. We’ll need to tell the clan what has happened… so they can give her a proper burial.”

They walked out of the cave, Hawke sparing one last glance at the Keeper’s body lying in a pool of blood on the cold stone floor. _Forgive me, Marethari. Perhaps I should have tried harder to dissuade Merrill from this path… but you knew I would fail, didn’t you? That’s why you did this insane thing in the first place._ She couldn’t help feeling that the blame for the Keeper’s death fell on her shoulders as well, at least in some part. _Well, you have plenty of other deaths you feel guilty about, what’s one more on your conscience?_ She felt her mouth tug in a familiar kind of bleak amusement as they started their long trek back down the mountain.

***

Hours later, safely back at home, Fenris watched as Hawke lounged in her favorite armchair, silently staring into the fireplace. Her eyes were lidded with weariness, and her lips were pressed together tightly, something clearly weighing on her mind, thought she’d said little after they’d returned to Kirkwall.

In their years together, he’d often caught glimpses of Hawke’s impulsive empathy for those around her, even people she barely knew. She hid it well with her irreverent sense of humor and sometimes fiery temper, but it was impossible to know her for this long and not realize she had a disconcerting tendency to take the pain of others and make it her own. This was probably why she always seemed swamped with myriad miscellaneous errands for half of Kirkwall, whether it was rescuing miners from an irate dragon or helping the Qunari recover their lost swords. She always insisted she did it for the coin, but Fenris wasn’t fooled. Sometimes her penchant for helping every sob story that crossed their path was exasperating, but really, that was why she was Champion of Kirkwall despite the fact she was an apostate living in a city ruled by Templars. The common people of Kirkwall loved her, and that made her untouchable. But in their minds, she was larger than life, a rogue with a pair of quicksilver daggers and powerful magic to boot. No one ever saw her after the battle, curled up with a cup of tea and the burdens of an entire city weighing on her shoulders. Not even Fenris had seen much of this side of Hawke. Until now.

Hawke shifted in her chair and caught him look at her with his measured gaze. She gave him a tired smile. “Let me guess. You are trying to find the most diplomatic way of telling me _I told you so._ ”

That had actually been the last thing on his mind. “Diplomacy is not one of my many talents, I’m afraid.”

He was rewarded by a soft laugh. “True enough. Well, I wouldn’t worry.” She sighed and averted her eyes in a way that sent a pang straight to his heart. “I’ve already found countless different ways to tell myself the same thing.”

Fenris hesitated for a moment, then rose to his feet. She turned to look at him, her eyebrows raised, as he knelt on the floor next to her and took her hands in his. He felt somewhat awkward; expressing tenderness was something still quite new to him. But he took a moment to savor the feeling of her slender fingers, her calloused palms warm against his own. She was looking down at him, her eyes still tired, but already the weariness in her face had softened. He felt humbled by the realization that he had the ability to comfort her with such a small gesture.

“You should leave the brooding to me, Hawke,” he suggested. “It is my specialty, after all, as Varric never tires of reminding me. It doesn’t suit you as much.”

Hawke laughed. “Maybe we’re rubbing off on each other. Have you felt the sudden urge to make completely inappropriate comments in the middle of a crisis?”

“I think you do that enough for the both of us,” he noted wryly. She huffed in mild amusement, and he was pleased to see the sorrow somewhat lifted from her face. “Hawke.” He gently tightened his hold on her fingers. “Don’t blame yourself for what happened today. It is not on you.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, her amber eyes sharpening with skepticism. “You don’t really believe that, Fenris. Just this morning you were trying to convince me to smash Merrill’s mirror and put an end to her madness.” She sighed. “Maybe if I’d done that, the Keeper would still be alive.”

“And maybe you would have pushed Merrill down a darker path, had you followed my advice.” Fenris countered. He _had_ thought it the right thing to do when he’d said it, but the events of the day had been significant enough to give him pause. It was a strange, unfamiliar thing for him – he was used to condemning magic out of hand, especially blood magic. He wasn’t used to actually contemplating it in any depth; pondering motivations and consequences rather than putting up a mental wall of blind fear and loathing. But when he’d made the decision to commit to a future with Hawke, he’d sworn to himself he was done being a coward. And that also meant forcing himself to reflect on things that had terrified him in the past.

Hawke was looking at him questioningly, and he let out a slow breath, trying to articulate his tangled thoughts. “The Keeper’s death was a tragedy, but perhaps there would have been no other way to show Merrill that dabbling in dangerous magic, no matter how noble her intentions, is inevitably going to end in the deaths of innocents. She felt justified in her madness because she was so certain she could ensure the consequences were born by her alone. It had never occurred to her that they could fall on someone else. Until they did.” Hawke closed her eyes as if trying to block out the memory of the Keeper’s broken body at their feet, and he squeezed her hands, trying to be reassuring. “If you had followed my advice and broken her mirror, she never would have learned that lesson. She might have gone to greater lengths in her insane pursuit for forbidden knowledge, and Maker only knows what the result of that would have been.”

He fell silent, waiting for Hawke to speak. She opened her eyes, and they were still full of sorrow, but it seemed to weigh on her a little less than before. Then she looked at him with a small mischievous smile that lightened his heart. “So what you’re saying is, _I_ was right and you were wrong?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Trust a rogue to twist my words. You are impossible, Marian Hawke.”

She bent her head, flashing him a wider grin, and kissed him, her lips soft and inviting, the warm, familiar smell of her both comforting and arousing all at once. For a brief moment, all was right with the world. Outside the four walls surrounding them, the world was still cruel and bloody and teetering on the brink of complete chaos, but here, with Hawke in his arms, it was easy to pretend it was just them, and nothing else mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not a lot of tension to be had once Fenris and Hawke finally reconcile, but I wanted to indulge in one chapter that explored how the two of them navigated their differences in opinion once they were properly together.


	19. Epilogue - The Last Straw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke pays someone a midnight visit to cut a deal.

Cullen started from his bed. For a heartbeat, he thought the morning bell had awoken him. Then memories of the previous day crashed through his consciousness in a relentless wave. Green light filling the sky as fragments of stone and glass rained down all around them. The First Enchanter transforming himself into something that made Cullen shudder with revulsion even as he tried to suppress the memory of it. And the final horror: the Knight-Commander, Meredith Stannard, whom he had remained loyal to despite all the doubts and fears that had plagued him for the past three years, revealing herself to be something terrible and inhuman; twisted by dark magic, yes, but by her own ambition and pride as well.

How could he not have seen it? He’d been so desperate to preserve order in Kirkwall, so determined to make sure his new life would succeed where his old one had failed, that he had become stupidly, willfully blind to Meredith’s gradual descent into madness. He was her right hand – he should have known.

No, that wasn’t right. He had to be honest with himself. He _had_ known. He should have had the courage to speak up. And now Kirkwall was in chaos and ruin, and he was at least partly to blame. He had failed his people and his duty – again.

He was so immersed in his own despair that it took him another moment to realize what had awoken him in the first place. It was still the middle of the night, and his fire was little more than glowing embers. The uncertain light they cast outlined a figure sitting at his window, casually perched on the sill as if they’d dropped by for afternoon tea. The only feature he could make out was a pair of amber eyes, glinting in the darkness.

“Hawke,” he breathed.

He lunged for his sword, but in a heartbeat she was sitting on his chest, a dagger pressed to his throat with just enough pressure for him to know that it was sharpened to a razor’s edge. He froze.

“Hello, Cullen.” Her voice was cool and amused, pitched for his ears alone. “Apologies for dropping in uninvited. It’s terribly rude, I know.”

He swallowed, his voice a hoarse whisper. “If I shout, my people will be in this room before you can escape.”

“Ah, but if you shout and startle my poor fragile nerves, my hand might slip, and then where will we be?” He could barely see her face, but he could hear the laughter in her voice. He forced himself to slowly ease back onto his pillows and relax the tension from his muscles. If he’d hoped that he could lull Hawke into a false sense of security, he was wrong; the blade stayed where it was, steady and tense against his jugular.

“That’s better.” Hawke sounded like she might pat him on the head. “It’s been a long day for both of us, Cullen.”

“And whose fault is that?” he demanded. “If it wasn’t for that insane apostate you’ve been harboring all this time…”

“Anders managed to surprise us all.” The flippant reply was at odds with her tone, spoken with the bitterness of a deep betrayal. Something Cullen could empathize with, unfortunately. “But he wasn’t wrong about one thing. This all would have blown up in our faces at some point, though maybe not quite as literally as it did. And at any rate, all of that is irrelevant, now. The damage has been done, and all we can do is pick up the pieces as best we can.”

Cullen grunted in disbelief. “What do you care about picking up the pieces? All you know is how to sow chaos and violence.”

“Fine words coming from a Templar.” Hawke retorted. “Are we parceling out blame, Knight-Captain? You knew better than anyone that Meredith was losing her grip on reality. Her persecution of the mages under her care had long since passed the point of what was acceptable, even for your lot. And what did you do to stop her? _Nothing_.” Her voice was carefully low, but her words bit at him like the snap of a whip. “You sat in your shiny armor with your thumb up your arsehole and let her squeeze the mages until they could no longer breathe, until they were desperate and had nothing to lose. So don’t talk to me of sowing chaos and violence, Templar.”

It was so close to his own self-recriminations that he had no response to give her. Instead, he held his tongue and waited. Hawke was a rogue and an apostate, but she wasn’t insane. Not entirely, anyway. He doubted she’d broken into his room just to give him a good talking-to.

“So you know how to listen. Good.” Hawke sounded pleased. “Now, if you swear to me you will hear me out without raising the alarm, I’ll take my blade from your throat and we can converse in a more civilized fashion.”

“You would trust the word of a Templar?” Cullen couldn’t help asking with some skepticism.

He heard her huff with what might have been amusement. “I would trust _your_ word, Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford.”

Cullen hesitated, but he had to admit, he was curious as to what she had to say. And if she’d meant to slit his throat, she would have done so without bothering to wake him up. “Fine. Let me up.”

She hopped off his chest and retreated to the windowsill, sheathing her dagger and crossing her arms. As he shifted to sit up, he suddenly remembered he was shirtless and in his smallclothes. He felt absurdly embarrassed and thanked the Maker it was too dark for Hawke to see his face; he was certain he was blushing. He had to repress the urge to pull the sheets up around him, instead forcing himself to straighten as he perched on the edge of his bed. “Well? Why are you here, Hawke?”

“Believe it or not, we both want the same thing, Knight-Captain.” She sounded eminently reasonable, as if she hadn’t just scaled the side of a building in the middle of a night to surprise a man sleeping peacefully in his own bed. “We want to rebuild Kirkwall, and perhaps make it less of a shithole that it previously was.”

“What do you care what happens to Kirkwall?” he hissed. It probably wasn’t the best idea to antagonize a woman in possession of a dagger sharp enough to shave with, particularly one with the reputation of being slightly unhinged. But he was exhausted to his bones and full of anger that had no clear target. “You’re not even from here.”

“Neither are _you_ , Knight-Captain. We are both from Ferelden, in case you’ve forgotten. And yet here we both are.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her words shook with suppressed fury. “I have bled for Kirkwall, Cullen. I have killed for her, and I have sacrificed more than you know. So don’t you _dare_ accuse me of not caring. If that were true, I would have left the city to eat itself alive. But for some bloody reason, here I am.”

He was silenced by the intensity of her words; despite it all, he found himself reluctantly believing she meant what she said. She was the Champion of Kirkwall, after all, and even he had to admit, she’d earned that title fairly. Her methods of helping Kirkwall had been almost the polar opposite of his own, but perhaps, in the end, it didn’t matter after all.

Hawke took a deep breath and let it out before continuing in a somewhat calmer tone. “You are a pretentious arse, Knight-Captain Cullen, but luckily for you, I believe you are sincere, at least.” At that, he felt the corner of his mouth curl in reluctant amusement at how she kept echoing his own thoughts back at him.

“I have a proposal for you.” Hawke continued. “If you agree, I will leave Kirkwall as soon as this conversation is over, and you’ll never hear from me again. Now there’s a tempting thought, no?”

He forced himself to be still, to make his voice neutral. “What is this proposal of yours?”

She shifted on the sill, regarding him with those golden eyes that made him feel he was being sized up for a meal. “I want complete amnesty for my companions. They will remain in Kirkwall, and you will make sure they are not turned into scapegoats for what happened yesterday.”

Cullen bristled at that. “I allowed all of you to leave unmolested, after the battle was over. Isn’t that enough?”

Hawke cursed. “No, Cullen, it fucking isn’t. Are you still denying that your precious Order is responsible for any of this?”

He swallowed, but refused to back down. “No. Are _you_ denying your own responsibility, Hawke? The apostate that blew up the Chantry was a close friend of yours. Don’t deny it.”

She let out a long sigh, and when she spoke again her voice was heavy with weariness. “I don’t deny it. And I will take as much responsibility as I can. But my companions shouldn’t have to bear the consequences of my failure.”

Despite himself, he felt a spark of pity for the Champion. “So, you are not asking amnesty for yourself, then?”

“No,” she said flatly. “I already told you, I’m leaving, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll tell the Divine that all of it was my fault.”

“What about the apostate responsible for the murder of the Grand Cleric?”

“He’s dead.” Hawke’s voice was cold and emotionless, and Cullen felt goosebumps on his bare flesh at the implications behind her laconic reply. But he decided not to pursue the subject any further; she was right about that, at least. It was all irrelevant now.

“So what _exactly_ are you asking of me, Hawke?”

“If you had any sense, you’d realize I’m actually doing you a favor.” Hawke’s tone was now brisk and businesslike, as if they were merchants haggling over a contract. “Aveline will remain the Guard-Captain; she is the best thing that’s happened to the City Guard in a long time, and if you make her your ally, she will do everything in her power to help you rebuild Kirkwall.”

Cullen had somewhat mixed feelings about Aveline Vallen – she was as stubborn as an ox and as blunt as a hammer – but he knew Hawke was right: she was a woman of honor, and the Guard was immensely loyal to their Captain. Having her stay in her current position would be the sensible thing to do, much as he hated to admit it. “Very well.”

“Bethany will also remain here, with what’s left of the Circle.”

“You want your sister to remain _in Kirkwall_?” Cullen had to force himself to lower his voice. “Why?”

“The Circle is broken, but the mages are still here. She won’t want to abandon them.” Hawke said evenly. “And much as I hate to admit it, she has always been safest in your care.” She paused, her eyes fixed on him. “I trust that you are not going to follow through with Meredith’s insane plan to invoke the Right of Annulment.”

“Maker’s breath, Hawke.” Cullen felt a flash of indignant anger at the suggestion.

“No need to be vulgar.” Hawke continued on, unfazed. “Varric and Merrill also wish to stay where they are.”

Cullen knew little about Hawke’s dwarven companion, other than that he was a successful merchant with a good deal of influence in Kirkwall. “I have no issue with Tethras, but Merrill…” He cleared his throat. “Isn’t she an apostate?”

“You must be joking, Cullen.” Hawke’s tone was caught between exasperation, amusement, and disbelief. “The Circle has fallen, or hadn’t you noticed? We’re all apostates now. But Merrill will keep to herself in the alienage. She wants to help her people, that is all. Humans don’t give a shit about elves as long as they stay where they’re meant to, anyway. Would you agree, Knight-Captain?”

He felt that the question was a trap and decided not to answer. “As long as she doesn’t call attention to herself, she’ll be left alone.”

“How generous.”

Cullen ignored her obvious sarcasm. “What about the rest of your companions?”

She made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Sebastian will most likely return to Starkhaven. He’s a prince and a former Chantry brother, so it would be in your own best interest to leave him alone, unless getting tangled up in politics is a particular fetish of yours. And Isabela is probably going to hop the first ship out of here. Unlike either of us, she is a sane person and most likely sees no reason to stay.”

“What about your elven friend? Fenris?” Cullen was curious. “There will be plenty of opportunities for a skilled warrior in Kirkwall as we rebuild.”

Hawke was silent for a moment. “He… will not be staying,” was all she said, though she seemed slightly uncertain.

“I see.” Cullen let out a long breath, considering. Certainly there would be some people calling for blood, but with both Meredith and Orisno dead and Hawke on the run, he doubted anyone would really care about her companions. And Hawke’s points were all valid. Kirkwall would be in dire need of leadership in the coming months. Those of her companions remaining in the city would most likely be stabilizing influences. Without _he_ r there, he could only pray they would have no incentive to stir up any more trouble.

“I can’t promise what will happen if the Divine decides on drastic measures in dealing with Kirkwall,” he said at length. “I pray it doesn’t come to that. But I swear to you, your friends in Kirkwall will not be forced to bear the blame for this tragedy. That would be the worst miscarriage of justice.”

He heard her smothering a laugh, though she didn’t sound terribly amused. “Justice can be a cruel bastard, Knight-Captain. But thank you for agreeing to my proposal. I am in your debt, though I’m afraid it may be quite some time before I’m in any position to repay you.”

She swung her legs over the sill, clearly preparing to leap out the window, and Cullen reached out without thinking. “Hawke!”

She paused, and he realized he’d called out to her without quite knowing what he wanted to say. He opened his mouth and surprised himself with his next sentence. “You shouldn’t have to bear the blame, either.”

“I appreciate the sentiment.” For once, she sounded sincere, though her words were edged with regret. “But consider this my final act as Kirkwall’s Champion. Better the blame fall on me than on all of the city. And I think you’ll find it easy enough to convince the Divine that this tragedy is the fault of one insane apostate, especially one who already has a reputation for bathing in blood and eating the hearts of her enemies.” She barked an unfettered laugh, a startling sound that made him jump. “At least this means I can finally quit this bloody job. Being the Champion of Kirkwall has been the biggest pain in my arse, let me tell you.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving Cullen staring foolishly at his empty windowsill.

***

She rejoined them just as the first fingers of dawn were stretching out against the sky. Fenris let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding when they spotted her making her way along the shore, a bulky satchel slung over each shoulder.

 “How went your fool’s errand?” he inquired dryly as she drew closer.

“Well, I’m here, rather than in a prison cell in the Gallows or spattered at the foot of the Circle tower, so I’d say it went fairly well.” Hawke grinned at him unrepentantly, carelessly dropping the satchels into the sand.

They were clustered around a small campfire at the mouth of a cave, one of many that dotted the Wounded Coast. Bethany and Isabela were sleeping, curled up under one blanket like children seeking comfort in each other’s presence. Aveline was leaned up against the cliff face, eyes restlessly sweeping their surroundings, and Sebastian had perched himself on a ledge higher up, an arrow nocked to his bow. Varric was sitting close to the fire, humming something under his breath, and Merrill was next to him, dozing off on his shoulder. Fenris watched Hawke pause to take in their companions with a somber look on her face, and somehow he knew she was thinking of Anders. Fenris could find no pity in his heart for the dead mage, only anger that he had left Hawke with another indelible scar on her already battered soul.

“Hawke.” Aveline greeted her. “What did the Knight-Captain say?”

“He has agreed that all of you will be allowed to stay in Kirkwall.” Hawke’s eyes were red with weariness, but she seemed pleased with herself as she made this announcement. “And you will keep your position, Aveline, though why you would want to be Guard-Captain at a time like this is a true mystery.”

“What about you?” Aveline pressed, ignoring the jibe.

Hawke shrugged, her eyes flickering off into the distance. “I’m leaving. Maker only knows what sort of garbled story is going to make its way to the ears of the Divine, but I’m fairly sure I’ll be the villain of the piece. There’s no point in saving this bloody city only to have it turned to ashes by a Divine March.”

“So _you’re_ taking all the shit for Blondie and Meredith?” Varric demanded indignantly, loudly enough to make Bethany and Isabela sit up.

“Marian!” Bethany scrambled to her feet and hugged her sister tightly. “You’re back!”

“Hawke was just explaining to us her brilliant plan to act as Templar bait while she expects the rest of us to stay warm and dry in Kirkwall,” Aveline explained in a biting tone.

Fenris stayed silently. The discussion was more or less irrelevant to him, as he already knew what his decision was going to be. Bethany clutched her sister at arm’s length and stared at her in alarm. “Marian, I’m not letting you run around being chased by Templars while you leave me tucked under a blanket in Kirkwall.”

“Maker’s breath, Bethany, you think I _want_ to leave you in this shithole?” Hawke retorted sharply. “After what happened yesterday, the past eight years are going to seem like Kirkwall’s Golden Age compared to what’s on the horizon. And what happened here…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “The repercussions will be felt everywhere in Thedas. Nowhere is going to be safe.”

Bethany’s mouth took on a stubborn line. “Then why do the rest of us need to stay here?”

Hawke sighed and rolled her eyes. “Can you imagine the lot of us trying to keep a low profile as we scurry around the Free Marches?” She made a sweeping gesture to include everyone. “We’d be caught within a month. But that’s not the only reason.” She took her sister’s hands and looked at her earnestly. “Kirkwall needs you, Bethany. There are still mages there, terrified of what the future is going to bring them. They need someone to speak for them in the upcoming chaos, so what happened under Meredith never happens again.”

“That should be _your_ job.” Bethany insisted, her voice shaky. “You’re the bloody Champion of Kirkwall!”

Hawke shook her head. “The best thing I can do for Kirkwall is to disappear. The only way the city can escape the wrath of the Chantry is if they can point a finger at someone no longer there, someone important enough to take the blame for what happened.”

“Developed a high opinion of ourselves, have we?” Varric quipped.

“It’s all your fault, Varric.” A brief grin flashed across her face. “Your stories have done wonders for my ego.”

“We won’t let this city turn you into a scapegoat,” Sebastian had come down from his perch, though he still had an arrow ready to draw at a moment’s notice. “I swear to you, Hawke, once I retake Starkhaven, I will make sure your name is cleared so history knows the truth of it.”

Hawke favored the former Chantry brother with a tired smile. “I don’t give two shits about what history thinks of me. Everyone I care about knows the truth, and that’s all that matters.”

“Pretty words won’t save your arse now, Hawke.” Isabela put her hands on her hips, clearly exasperated. “If you’d let me make that deal with Castillon, we would have a ship to flee on right now.”

“I don’t doubt you’ll wrangle another ship into your grasp before long.” Hawke shrugged. “And anyway, fleeing on a ship defeats the purpose. I meant to leave a trail so the Templars think they can catch me. The whole point is to distract them from focusing their ire on Kirkwall.”

Bethany was still staring at her sister. “That is the craziest, stupidest plan you’ve ever come up with, Mari, and that is saying something.”

Hawke flashed her usual mischievous grin, the one that Fenris knew and loved so well, though her eyes shimmered with emotion. She enveloped her sister in a hug and held her close for a long moment. “I’ll be in touch, Bethy,” she whispered, kissing her sister on the cheek. “This isn’t a final farewell.”

“Are you sure you don’t want some of us to join you, Hawke?” Merrill spoke up, her large eyes shining with her eagerness to be useful. “I’m used to sneaking around and avoiding humans, you know. I would be _much_ more helpful than everyone else.”

Hawke hugged Merrill as well. “The elves of the alienage need you, Merrill, just as the mages need Bethany. I can’t ask you to leave your people.”

“You’re my people, too, Hawke.” Merrill insisted. “What kind of friends would we be if you let you run off and be hunted by Templars all on your own?”

Fenris cleared his throat, and everyone’s eyes were immediately drawn to him. “She won’t be on her own.” His voice was rough, and though everyone was staring at him, he only saw Hawke. She had a small smile on her face, and her amber eyes were warm and creased with unguarded joy. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss away the tears that were threatening to overflow, but instead he gave everyone else a challenging glare that dared them to open their mouths.

“Well, then!” Merrill said brightly. “That’s all right. I know you two will take good care of each other. But please do write. Secretly, of course. No names. I’ll just assume it’s you if there’s not a name.”

As dawn broke over the horizon, the companions all said their farewells and prepared to return to Kirkwall. Fenris was mildly surprised to feel a pang at the thought of possibly never seeing some of his companions again. Aveline clasped his hand and made a joke about Donnic no longer having an excuse to avoid playing cards with her. Varric clapped him on the back and dryly observed Hawke had really made the best choice in traveling partners if her goal was to be as conspicuous and memorable as possible. Isabela suggested they plan their route by tagging every brothel between Kirkwall and Denerim. Merrill, nonsensical to the last, told him she thought it was adorable that Hawke made him smile so much more often and that he should take care his face didn’t crack from the unaccustomed strain. Sebastian shook hands solemnly and offered a sincere if predictable platitude about the Maker’s hand sheltering the two of them on their travels. Bethany surprised him by throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him fiercely, whispering in his ear to keep her sister safe, especially from herself. He knew what she meant, and awkwardly hugged her back as he promised he would do so.

Finally, it was just the two of them and the narrow path leading away from Kirkwall. Hawke gave a theatrical sigh. “That was the longest goodbye in the history of goodbyes. You know this means we’ll have to stay away for at _least_ a decade. It would be extremely awkward if we came back in just a few months, after all those tears and dramatical embraces.”

Fenris gave a huff of begrudging amusement. “Are you ready to leave, then? No more loose ends?”

“No.” Hawke shook her head decisively. “Varric will make sure Orana and Bodahn and everyone else are looked after properly. That’s all I really cared about. He can turn the estate into a brothel for all I care. Although if he does do that, Mother’s ghost will probably haunt that place for all eternity. Not very titillating, I suppose.”

Fenris hefted one of the satchels she had brought and slung it over his left shoulder. “Then we should be off.”

Hawke picked up the other satchel, then paused to look back at Kirkwall, the city’s dingy walls gleaming deceptively as the sun rose above the horizon. Her eyes were distant, and Fenris imagined she was seeing the city and all that had happened within its walls in her entire time there. “Will you miss Kirkwall, Fenris?”

He barely spared the city a second glance, instead focusing on Hawke, her lovely profile outlined in the warm light of early morning. “What is there to miss?” he asked in all seriousness. “Everything I ever cared about in Kirkwall is here at my side.”

She turned to him, her smile warm and tremulous for a brief moment before widening into her more familiar impish smirk. “You are becoming far too charming for your own good, Fenris. I’ll have to slit a few throats to keep the hussies away from you.”

“I thought we were trying to keep a low profile.”

“I’ll be very discreet, I promise.”

Fenris laughed, and Hawke slipped her small hand into his own as they started up the rugged path. He had a moment to reflect on the irony of it all – he had come to Kirkwall a wanted fugitive, and now here he was, fleeing Kirkwall for exactly the same reason he’d sought it out. But for the first time in his life, his heart felt light within his chest, open to myriad possibilities. He had no idea where the path they were on would take them, other than away from Kirkwall. But he had his sword strapped to his back and Marian Hawke at his side. Nothing else mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this fic. Thank you to everyone who read along and gave me the motivation to finish!


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